


The Book of Four

by malarak



Series: Spelled [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:04:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 53,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2095023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malarak/pseuds/malarak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My Sleepy Hollow AU travels to England, where Ichabod takes Andy on vacation and to attend the 600th anniversary of Ichabod’s alma mater, Lamberton Academy. Lamberton is the school for those who have the ability to work with spells, and two other alumni (and lifelong friends of Ichabod) are Greg Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes. Ichabod and Andy help Greg, Sherlock, and John Watson to solve a series of puzzling murders, not to mention even more puzzling matters of the heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Andy

**Author's Note:**

> Part way through my second story involving Ichabod Crane and Andy Brooks, I realized I could merge my Sleepy Hollow AU with characters from the world of Sherlock Holmes. So I dropped a few elements into my second story that would set the stage for this third story, and here it is. There is murder, just as with my other stories, and there is sex, in a variety of combinations. I have had a wonderful time setting this all in motion, and I hope it will be as good to read as it’s shaping up in my head.
> 
> While I hope you’ll read my other two stories as well, for those who are more interested in Sherlock and John than Ichabod and Andy, I have included a synopsis of the essential elements from the first two stories to provide enough background for this one below. For those of you who have read the other two stories, thanks for sticking with me; you can just proceed directly to Chapter One now. Plan is to post a chapter every Thursday.
> 
> Background
> 
> In this world, witches cast spells to order. However, not all witches are equally talented, and poorly constructed spells and the objects that contain them end up in the wild with the potential to cause far more chaos than originally planned. Enter Ichabod Crane, a man who can find these spelled objects. Following in his father’s footsteps. Ichabod runs an antique store in San Francisco even as he works for the larger community of witches to find and lock away loose spelled objects.
> 
> Ichabod has been rather callous in his past relationships, including his simultaneous affairs with both Albion siblings, resulting in his being spelled himself with three curses: that he would never find love, that he would destroy the one he loved, and that he would be impotent with the one he loved. As a result, he seldom thinks beyond a date that ends in bed.
> 
> The mysterious death of Ichabod’s assistant introduces Ichabod to his assistant’s nephew, Andy Brooks. Andy and Ichabod end up in bed, and then Andy becomes Ichabod’s new assistant (it’s not as callous as that sounds). Ichabod introduces Andy to the world of spells and magic, not to mention Jennifer Mills, his consulting witch, and Abbie Mills, his best friend and contact in the police department. Luke Morales is Abbie Mills’ colleague in the force and later her boyfriend.
> 
> Gradually, the four of them figure out that Andy’s aunt’s death was caused by her shadow, a spell cast on her that allowed another person to control a shadow version of her. The person who cast the spell turns out to be Andy’s adopted mother and one of Ichabod’s former lovers, Katrina Moloch.
> 
> When Andy and Ichabod fall in love, thereby defeating one of Ichabod’s curses, a final complex spell is put into motion where Andy, too, finds he has a shadow that has been instructed to kill Ichabod. He discovers that his whole life has been carefully constructed by Katrina Moloch in her plan to destroy not just Ichabod but Ichabod’s family, but Andy manages to gain control of the shadow and, in the end, he and Ichabod find a way to defeat the other two curses.

It was a bit overwhelming, so Andy was enormously glad that his first trip abroad was to an English-speaking country. He and Ichabod were in a Sainsbury To Go to get bottles of water on this ferociously hot July day when Andy spied the display of potato chips (or crisps, as Ichabod would correct him).

"Rhubarb?" asked Andy. "This is really a flavor here?"

"Sweet and a bit tangy," mused Ichabod. "Don't you like rhubarb?"

Andy looked up at his boyfriend (partner, lover, s.o. - they still had not worked this out) incredulously. "Pie, yes. Chips, not so much."

"I seem to remember your enjoyment of fried chicken and waffle potato chips just the other month."

"Fried chicken has some connection to potato chips. So do waffles for that matter."

"Because they're golden brown?"

"Exactly. But these," Andy gesticulated towards the chips, "are unnatural. At the very least, they should be red."

Andy was sure Ichabod threw a package into their basket, along with a package of gamon and pickle flavored ones, just to mess with him, but the smug devil just smiled at him.

Ichabod took great delight in knowing the lay of the land, and, to be honest, Andy liked being taken around. At home, their relationship was finding a balance. They were figuring out what each of them was best at. Ichabod cooked. Andy did laundry. Ichabod made the tea. Andy brewed the coffee (or more accurately, ran the espresso machine). Ichabod planned their travel arrangements. Andy packed their bags. Here in London, Ichabod led the way (although Andy was quickly the one to navigate the Tube and buses).

They had been in London less than two days. The first afternoon was a blur, and Andy attributed his lack of sharpness to jet lag. Yesterday was their first full day, and due to the beautiful weather, they had bought sandwiches to eat in Hyde Park from a shop where the sandwiches were prepackaged in refrigerator cases, and Andy had bought one with crayfish and rocket, which turned out to be arugula. Andy marveled at the number of people everywhere. He had always considered San Francisco a big city, but it was a suburb at best compared to London, and a sparsely populated one at that.

They had visited the Tate Modern, a vast hulk of a museum that used to be a power station, and Andy had to admit the collection of modern art, some of which he had a hard time thinking of as art, was very interesting. The coolest thing was the enormous crack that an artist had installed in the floor of the old engine room area, a room the size of a football field. It ran from one end to the other, and kids laughed as they jumped back and forth over the crack while many adults walked along the crack with a foot to either side. It made Andy think of earthquakes and San Francisco.

They walked along the river and explored some stores with really interesting and strange things. Andy bought a plastic man with a round head that you stored rubber bands on, making his head bigger over time. He thought that would be a great gift for Abbie. For Luke, he got post-it pads in the shape of hands. You could fold the fingers, and Andy could imagine Luke folding down four of the fingers to send a strong message to people who pissed him off. For Jenny, he got push pins shaped like moles and molehills for no reason other than they were pretty cute.

They wandered across a bridge and just admired the view of the enormous city from the water. Everything looked so new from the river, but then they also wandered through a store that was housed in what was clearly an old building with pale green painted paneling on the front and beautiful wooden staircases to move between floors (there were elevators, too, but Andy couldn't pass up the curved and carved banisters). It seemed at first to just carry food and tea, but upon exploration of higher floors, he found it also sold clothing, personal accessories, stationery, and housewares. Andy didn't know what else to call it other than a department store, although Ichabod said they had proper department stores in London, too.

Day two dawned equally hot, and after a very comfortable visit to Westminster Abbey temperature-wise (very uncomfortable crowd-wise, OMG there had been a lot of people) and a sweaty walk to see Big Ben and the buildings of Parliament, they were both sweaty and in danger of dehydration, hence the stop at Sainsbury.

They found some shaded steps in front of an office building and drank their bottled water and ate their crisps in relative comfort (the crisps were actually quite good - salty with some sweetness and sourness).

After tossing their plastic bottles and crisp packages into a trash bin (Andy was mentally revising his vocabulary all the time), Andy asked where they were heading to next.

"To see an old friend and classmate." Ichabod looked quite happy about the prospect, and Andy was very curious to meet someone who had known Ichabod for more than half a century.

Andy always enjoyed looking at Ichabod's face. He was lean with dark eyes and dark brown hair. A mustache and well-trimmed beard always made Andy think of a pirate, albeit a very well-groomed and pretty damn sexy one. There was generally a sense of mischief in Ichabod's eyes, and Andy loved the fact that there was so much about Ichabod that he didn't know and, with time, could find out. It never ceased to boggle Andy's mind that Ichabod had been born before World War II, yet due to his special genetics, looked only a little older than Andy's 32 years.

Ichabod was going to age very slowly, and in a decade or maybe two, Andy would surpass him in physical if not chronological age. That was not something Andy wanted to dwell on, but he couldn't say that a stray thought in that direction didn't emerge from time to time.

For now, however, Andy focused on what he had, which was an amazing man, who loved him and was taking him to see an old school friend.

"I'm guessing he's a retriever of spelled items, like you?" Andy asked.

"Not exactly," said Ichabod, leading them through the crowds. "He has the same abilities as I do, all the students at Lamberton do, but he didn't go into the business of retrieving spelled objects."

"What does he do?"

"Greg Lestrade is an inspector at Scotland Yard."

Andy was sure the surprise showed on his face judging by Ichabod's amused expression. "THE Scotland Yard."

"The very same. Come on. It's just down the street from here."

.....

Scotland Yard, or more accurately New Scotland Yard, home of the Metropolitan Police, was not what Andy had expected. He thought of smoke covered brick and dark corridors. Disappointingly, New Scotland Yard was a concrete and glass office building.

"Really, Andy. If you had your way, all of London would be a Victorian theme park," commented Ichabod as they entered the building lobby.

"Blame your visitors bureau. All I know about London is from TV and ads," Andy grumbled.

"Ah. Here's Greg now. Always punctual."

Andy looked up at Ichabod's words, and he was pleasantly surprised to find that at least in this case, TV did not mislead him. Inspector Greg Lestrade was very well put together, with salt and pepper hair, bright eyes in a boyishly handsome face, and an open smile. He was trim and energetic, and Andy could imagine him racing down alleys and facing down criminals alongside Inspectors Lynley or Maigret.

A flash of surprise crossed Greg's face when Ichabod pulled him into a hug, but soon he was hugging Ichabod back. Ichabod must have realized how uncharacteristic the hug was because he immediately pulled back apologizing.

"No need to apologize, Cabo," laughed Greg. "You always come back a little more American. I've noticed all the male hugs on American telly these days."

"Cabo? Like in Cabo San Lucas?" asked Andy. They had gone to Mexico last December, and Cabo was one of the places they had considered. Andy realized Mexico really qualified as his first international trip, but this was his first transoceanic trip.

"Greg, this is Andy Brooks, my partner, whom you can partly blame for all the hugginess. He is very tactile, and I succumb every time."

"A pleasure to meet you. I've been speculating regularly since Cabo indicated he was now partnered, and it's good to put my speculating to rest."

Andy and Greg shook hands, but Andy didn't let go. He was quite aware that his question had gone unanswered. "Cabo?"

"Ah yes," said Greg. "Nothing untoward, at least about the nickname. Ichabod was just too much of a mouthful, so we shortened it to Cabo."

"Much preferable to the short-lived Icky," added Ichabod.

"We were a bit influenced by American gangster films at the time."

"I imagine that this whole visit and school visit will be one ceaseless unpeeling of all of my youthful secrets and indiscretions," sighed Ichabod dramatically.

"Fortunately you're here for two weeks then," laughed Greg. "We might have enough time to get through them all."

They headed out of the building into the hot afternoon, and Andy found himself surprised at how normal it all felt. Here they were in London on vacation and then to Lamberton Woods for his partner's (Andy was happy to stick with that for the duration of the trip) school's anniversary celebration. Little did it seem to matter that Greg and Ichabod (Cabo was good to know, but Andy couldn't see himself using it) had been classmates in the 1950s and 1960s, a half-century ago, nor the fact that both of them could sense magic spells and that witches and magic were very much a part of their lives.

Andy was content to listen to the two old friends catch up since their last visit about five years previous. Greg directed the occasional question to keep Andy politely included, and his eye was drawn each time Ichabod put an arm around Andy's shoulder or gave Andy's hand a squeeze. Clearly this was an Ichabod Greg had not known, but for Andy, this was the only Ichabod he knew, incredibly fond.

"You said we're doing tea, so here we are," announced Greg as he opened the door to The Blackbird Cafe. "They do the best tea in the neighborhood, but I rarely have the leisure to enjoy one."

Andy had read about tea and realized it was not just the usual mug he had in the afternoon with Ichabod, accompanied by cookies. This was essentially a meal, and Ichabod had insisted that they only snack lightly after their full English breakfast at mid-morning.

A young woman with multiple facial piercings and a ruffled apron sat them at a window table and went over the tea menu. Andy let the two men haggle over the sandwich fillings (no rhubarb as far as Andy could tell) and enjoyed listening to the English tones and the gentle civility of their exchange.

Greg and Ichabod (and Audrey, their server) explained to Andy about the clotted cream and jam and lemon curd (which was not like bean curd) and how they went with the scones (which were much smaller and lighter than ones he had had at home, and also simpler without the overabundance of chocolate chips and raisins). They described the various sandwich fillings (no rhubarb, in fact), and Andy was very appreciative of the lack of crusts, which would only interfere with the texture of the bread, cucumber, and butter. Ichabod poured (or, as Greg joked, played mother), and there was a disagreement between the two men as to whether to pour the milk before or after the tea.

Andy was very much enjoying this aspect of English life, and he realized why so many intercultural exchanges centered on food - it gave something to do while talking. They buttered their scones, commented on the shrimp paste, poured tea, and talked about recovering spelled items, dealing with crime syndicates, how Ichabod and Andy had met, Greg's now finalized divorce, and schoolmates they expected to see at the school celebration the following week.

What neither Andy nor Ichabod talked about was Katrina Moloch. Perhaps later over drinks with alcohol, but not on this pleasant London afternoon. It was too lazy and easy-going to talk about such dark things.

Suddenly, there loomed a tall dark stranger in an overcoat ill-suited to the warm afternoon standing on the other side of the glass, casting a shadow over the empty dishes and tiered serving stand, clearly glaring at Greg. And then staring at Ichabod. Whatever was happening here, Andy suspected there was a lot of history and not all of it comfortable.

"I'll take care of this," said Greg, already getting up, but before he could stand, the wild-looking man was at their table.

"Your idiots will not let me onto the crime scene without your express permission," the wild man said. "In person."

Greg shook his head in obvious frustration. "I am having a civilized tea with friends, Sherlock, and you have only yourself to blame for the fact they won't accept my okay over the phone."

Sherlock, a name which gave Andy pause (did all Lambertonians have unusual names?) until he reminded himself that Greg was a simple ordinary name, was clearly sulking and remained silent, glaring at Greg with petulant eyes.

"He faked the inspector's voice quite convincingly the other day, but was caught out when Greg appeared on the scene while ostensibly still on the line with the SCO."

Andy looked around at the sound of the unfamiliar voice and realized a shorter blond man (it would be hard not to be shorter than this Sherlock) was standing behind Sherlock looking rather bemused. Andy met his eye, and the blond immediately stepped around Sherlock and put out his hand.

"John Watson," he said, shaking Andy's hand solidly.

"Andy Brooks."

"Nice to meet you. Hello Greg. And you must be Ichabod Crane."

Andy looked at Ichabod in surprise. "Is John a schoolmate of yours, too?"

"Actually, no," said Ichabod. "However, Sherlock was."

"He's been muttering about you since he heard Greg had headed off with a tall man with facial hair and an Asian man. Nice to meet you, too."

"Are you both policemen, too?" asked Andy.

"A logical deduction," said John even as he cast a backwards look at Sherlock as if Sherlock was going to contradict him, "but Sherlock is actually a consulting detective, and I am, for better or worse, his partner in crime, as it were."

"For better, of course, John," snapped Sherlock. Turning to Greg, "You are clearly done with tea, Greg. There isn't even enough left for Mycroft to covet, so can we get going? Knowing your minions, they'll have accidentally scrubbed the scene of all relevance before I can get there."

"You have only become even more you, Sherlock," commented Ichabod as they all rose.

"You clearly have not exhausted your repertoire of banalities, Ichabod," Sherlock replied.

At least they had finally spoken to each other, Andy noted, but it wasn't clear whether they were friends or enemies.

Greg generously paid for tea, and by the time they had exited the cafe, Sherlock had already flagged down a cab.

Andy and Ichabod stood back as Greg, John, and Sherlock entered the cab. Greg stuck his head back out when he noticed they had not joined them. "I'm clearing this up for Sherlock and then we are enjoying the rest of our visit together as planned. Hop in. We should only be at the crime scene for a few minutes."

Ichabod looked at Andy, and Andy shrugged. "Kind of exciting, trailing detectives around London."

"Only the best for you, Andy," smiled Ichabod as they joined the others in the cab. And then they were off.


	2. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In case you didn't notice, the title of the chapter provides the point of view.

"What do you mean Lestrade is not here? It is the middle of the working day, and Lestrade is supposed to be working."

John rolled his eyes. It never ceased to amaze him that Sherlock's keen observational powers failed to remind him that a touch of courtesy could get him much further than irritation with the desk sergeant at Scotland Yard.

"The inspector was not expecting us, George," interjected John, "but it's rather important that we contact him."

George willingly turned away from the looming figure of Sherlock Holmes. "I saw him leave about an hour ago with a tall bearded gentleman and a short Asian gentleman. I couldn't say for sure, but it looked more like a visit with friends than business."

George had not even finished when Sherlock left the building with a dramatic swirl of his overcoat. John was just in shirtsleeves, it was so warm out, but Sherlock insisted on wearing his dark overcoat, undoubtedly for a bit of drama.

"Thank you, George," John called out, scurrying after Sherlock's rapidly moving back.

He caught up about half a block later, and through deep intakes of breath, managed to ask, "Where are we going?"

"The Blackbird Cafe. It's tea time, and Greg always takes out-of-town guests there since he feels the cafe does a good tea and has the proper English ambiance."

"So George was right about this being friends," said John.

"George has the deductive power of broken pencil," Sherlock said disdainfully. "The Lamberton Academy anniversary celebration is next week and alumni are attending from all over the world. Ichabod Crane is an old friend of Lestrade's, and they would be sure to meet up, evidently Crane with a paramour in tow."

"Wait. How do you know the Asian man is your classmate's lover? You haven't seen either of them,"

"John," Sherlock said, using the tone of voice that John recognized as disappointment in his lack of faith in Sherlock's abilities. "I don't need to see Ichabod Crane to know Ichabod Crane."

They continued to walk briskly through the afternoon crowd. "It sounds like you know each other well," ventured John cautiously. Sherlock had never said much about his time at Lamberton, only that it was, as were so many things in his youth, tedious.

"We were roommates."

John stopped dead at that revelation. Roommates? He couldn't imagine Sherlock rooming with anyone. Anyone else, he admitted to himself sheepishly. He ran to catch back up since Sherlock had not slowed.

"For how long?" John asked breathlessly.

"Officially, he was my roommate for my entire time at Lamberton."

"What do you mean officially?"

"Keep up, John. You well know I was in a rehabilitation facility for a year, and I used the room mostly as a place to store my things. In any case, no one else was ever assigned to be Ichabod's roommate during our time at Lamberton."

John did know about Sherlock's addictions or experimentation with chemical stimulants, but in spite of his dismissiveness, having had the same roommate for his entire time at Lamberton was significant. Including who would put up with Sherlock, besides John himself.

"Were you good friends?"

"We were lovers for a short time."

John gulped. He was learning more new things about Sherlock in this brisk walk than he had in the last year working together and sharing a flat. "I take it that didn't work out," John managed to comment, hoping he didn't sound overly interested.

"Clearly not, John." That tone again. Of course not, since John had never met nor heard of Ichabod Crane before. He was definitely hunting for Sherlock's school annuals the moment he was alone in the flat.

Sherlock stopped so abruptly that John ended up smashing into his back. When he sorted himself, he realized Sherlock was looking through the window of The Blackbird Cafe, about fifty feet away.

"We were both looking for something else," Sherlock said in a flat tone of voice, "even if we didn't completely know what it was at the time. I always wondered if he would settle down with a woman or a man. He always had a penchant for shorter men, and the fact that an Asian man, who in general are shorter than Ichabod's 1.8 metres, was accompanying him on a trip that still had more than a week to go suggested something more significant than a mere acquaintance."

If John wasn't mistaken, there was a touch of wistfulness behind Sherlock's studiously neutral tone, but he was too well-versed in Sherlock maintenance to mention it. Instead, he turned his attention to the group seated in the window, which they were steadily approaching.

The tall and lean and, John had to admit, decidedly handsome man had to be Ichabod Crane. Unlike Sherlock, he had a well-trimmed mustache and beard, but he shared Sherlock's intense eyes and animated features.

However, Ichabod Crane's demeanor was placid in comparison to the Asian man seated next to him. Evidently Ichabod's lover, John looked more carefully at the man than he normally would, trying to see, which Sherlock usually accused him of not doing. John had never really assessed an Asian man before, and he had to say that George's description had led him to expect an Indian or someone from Pakistan. Instead, he was Japanese or Chinese. Compared to Ichabod, he was relatively short, but John figured they were of a similar height, and he was not going to use an adjective he resented so much when applied to himself. He was younger than John, or so he guessed, and as John watched his animated face and hands, John would describe him as attractive.

Sherlock had been glaring at Greg through the window, but Greg was more resistant to Sherlock than most people, so Sherlock changed tactics and entered the cafe.

"Your idiots will not let me onto the crime scene without your express permission," Sherlock said to Greg. "In person."

Greg's reply only deepened Sherlock's sulkiness, and John felt compelled to remind Sherlock that he had brought this upon himself. Sherlock was not appreciative. John found himself eye to eye with the Asian man, and good manners compelled him to introduce himself.

When the man introduced himself as Andy Brooks, John noticed at once that he had an American accent. At least he could say he had noticed that much when he and Sherlock talked later. He also greeted Greg and introduced himself to Ichabod Crane, and he couldn't help giving a brief thought as to what Sherlock and Ichabod Crane had been like together. And now he was with someone who was quite dissimilar from Sherlock.

Sherlock rushed past John to go hail a cab, but John stayed back to walk out with the others.

A cab pulled up almost as soon as they were at the curb, and John followed Sherlock immediately into the cab by force of habit. Greg joined them, but when he noticed Ichabod and Andy still on the sidewalk, he leaned out. "I'm clearing this up for Sherlock and then we are enjoying the rest of our visit together as planned. Hop in. We should only be at the crime scene for a few minutes."

As Ichabod and Andy entered the cab, John couldn't help but notice the fond look that the two exchanged. He was distressed to find himself noticing.

Sherlock was seated across from Ichabod, and John noticed the similarities. They were both tall and lean, and the angles of their arms and legs seemed to fill the interior of the cab. The two hardly looked at each other, Sherlock facing away from Ichabod to converse with Greg, while Ichabod and Andy were sharing another couple's moment.

Sherlock and Ichabod had each ended up with a much shorter partner, but John considered ruefully that Andy didn't have to question what he felt for his partner. He knew, and Ichabod knew, and they were obviously happy.

John wasn't unhappy. Sherlock was amazing, and every day he spent with the man filled his life with a vividness that he had never expected to be his. But John wasn't ready to consider what would make him happy, thinking only that Sherlock was too brilliant to not know how John felt, so things were the way they were because Sherlock didn't feel the same. And John had functioned just fine with the status quo, but now that he knew that Sherlock had had a male lover, this knowledge opened up thoughts that John was perhaps wiser to keep tightly closed up.

"I'll clear things with Donovan, and then we're clearing off," insisted Greg as he got out of the cab.

"Fine," huffed Sherlock. "As long as you clear my path. There is obviously a spelled object in the flat, and they should have just let me in to begin with."

"Should we let the cab go?" asked Andy.

Greg paused, and John was sure he was considering the wisdom of holding a cab when Sherlock was involved. "Right," said Greg. "Let me get this, and we can actually walk to dinner later from here if you're in the mood for walking in this heat after this."

John was a bit surprised at not having to find the cab fare, but he was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Oh my god," smirked Donovan. "There's two of you now. Please don't tell me they're replicating you in a factory somewhere."

"Your wit never amuses. Ichabod Crane, Sally Donovan. A name to remember and avoid."

"A pleasure to meet you," said Ichabod. "A target of Sherlock's barbs can't be all bad."

Donovan was momentarily stunned but soon brought out a smile. "Clearly the resemblance is totally superficial."

"And may I introduce my life partner, Andy Brooks," Ichabod continued.

At that, Donovan's smile dimmed slightly, but she lit back up when Sherlock grumbled about interminable social niceties.

John was already halfway down the hallway of the flat when he heard Sherlock ask, "Just take a look. If I had your skill, I wouldn't be wasting it as a shop clerk."

"Your charm has not diminished with the passage of the years," Ichabod responded with a sigh. "Lead on."

Sherlock was clearly delighted to have Ichabod following in his wake. John was not sure he felt the same delight. When Andy drew near, John had to ask, "What skill?"

"I'm not sure," said Andy. "Ichabod can sense spelled objects, but Sherlock must be able to, too."

The hallway suggested that the resident was comfortably well off although not wealthy. There were framed lithographic prints on the walls and a nice mirror with a carved wood frame. 

When John and Andy entered the room, Sherlock was examining the papers strewn across the surface of the desk and cascading on to the floor. Ichabod stood to the side, apparently just taking everything in. John couldn't figure out what Ichabod's "special skill" was. Neither of them seemed at all interested in the body slumped in the desk chair, the deceased if John had needed to hazard a guess.

John decided to take the initiative and bent over the body. Andy stayed near the door, and soon Greg joined him. The body was of a Caucasian woman of middle age, but her chronological age, if she was one of the long-lived, could only be determined by a blood test. There were no signs of struggle, and the woman's arms fell to either side across the arms of her desk chair. She wore a short-sleeved blouse, and her bare arms showed no bruising or scratches. Overall, she looked to be a picture of health, with a ruddy glow to her skin even in death. The one oddity was the sheen of moisture on her lips, and when John leaned in to get a closer look, he could see that the front of her blouse was damp.

When John looked up, Sherlock had extracted a few items from the floes of paper and held them up for Ichabod's inspection.

"So she was a Lamberton Academy graduate?" asked Ichabod.

"Class of 1987. Carolin von Tassen. A retriever, but also a specialist in recovery of art stolen by the Nazis in World War II. She dabbles in oil painting and poetry and returned from a barefoot stroll through Regent's Park shortly before she was killed."

Ichabod showed no difference in facial expression, but when John looked to Andy, Andy's mouth had fallen open.

Andy looked at John and mouthed, "How does he know all that?" John just shrugged since he really didn't know, and wouldn't know unless Sherlock explained it to him.

Sherlock, however, had sensed an audience, and directed his next words to Andy. "First, a copy of the invitation to the Lamberton Academy Sexcentennial Celebration." He handed the invitation to Andy, who clearly recognized the invitation and handed it over to Ichabod.

"Second, a quick look around the room reveals a set of Lamberton Academy Annuals. The most recent volume is dated 1986-1987."

John noticed Andy followed the direction of Sherlock's gaze, and it was not hard to pick out the institutional appearance of the academy annuals.

"It should go without saying that her name is on many of her personal documents, and the contents of the various documents reveal her dual professions. There are also samples of her unfortunate doggerel. There are hints of different paint colors under her nails, and the fact that soap and water did not wash them off suggests that they were oil-based. The obviously amateurish vase of flowers on the wall by the window signed with the initials CVT is clearly an example of her meagre efforts.

"Finally, there is grass stuck to the bottom of her shoes as well as on the side of her foot and partly in her shoe. Regent's Park is just a few blocks away, and it is logical to presume she took a stroll there on such a warm day."

Sherlock turned to John. "It was death by carbon monoxide poisoning, undoubtedly induced and not suicide, so it was murder. However, the cause was not these capsules, which are still spelled."

John should have known Sherlock had already diagnosed the cause of death. At the last sentence, however, John looked over to the desk, and he saw the scatter of blue and red capsules on the desk.

"Are they important?" John asked.

"Perhaps. We don't know yet," said Sherlock. "This has the potential to be interesting." He turned to Ichabod, who already had an object bag in hand. Sherlock used the invitation to push the capsules into the bag, sealed it, and handed the bag to Ichabod.

"You are the retriever in the room, the only living one, after all," said Sherlock.

It looked like they were done for now, but as they were leaving, John took a closer look at the invitation. He remembered seeing it in Sherlock's mail, but he hadn't really looked at it. It was a piece of heavy card, and on the front were the details of the Lamberton Academy celebration in less than a week's time. On the back was a design involving four Tarot cards, apparently an inside joke among the Lambertonians and the theme of the gala dinner.

"Well, I think we are done here," announced Sherlock at the doorway. "A walk through Regent's Park to burn up the calories from your tea and then dinner at Angelo's?"

"Actually...," began Greg.

"You know that's exactly what you were planning, Lestrade. In any case, I insist," said Sherlock. Giving Ichabod a pointed look, "It's not every day that one sees old friends."

John wondered what that was all about.


	3. Ichabod

It was decidedly strange being in Sherlock's company once again. Ichabod had only spoken to Sherlock briefly during his last visit to London several years ago. As usual, Sherlock had been on a case and had little time for social niceties. So this visit already comprised more time with Sherlock than he had experienced in a decade.

The strangeness was on two levels. The first was the fact that their indefinable yet undeniable relationship endured in spite of their conscious or perhaps not so conscious attempts to stay apart. Ichabod felt the gravitational pull of the sheer force of Sherlock Holmes, just as he had when they had first met when they were 12. At first, Ichabod basked in the attention of his roommate, who had found his presence "tolerable," whereas everyone else was "tedious." Sherlock was amazing, and Ichabod had not taken offense when Sherlock had laid bare the paltry facts about his family that there were to be had at the time. Ichabod, who had always been considered bright, couldn't help but follow Sherlock, often to his detriment scholastically, who he instinctively knew was multiples beyond "bright."

When they met, they were both rather skinny and small, and Ichabod grew first. By the age of 14, Ichabod towered over Sherlock, and Ichabod had become protective of his smaller and decidedly brilliant and therefore peculiar friend. However, by 15, they were of a height, but that was a lost year since that was the year Sherlock discovered cocaine.

Ichabod had always thought he should have figured out what was happening sooner, but he had only ever been able to read Sherlock so far and no further. Sherlock had carefully kept the drugs just beyond Ichabod's perception. In any case, Sherlock was swept away by his older brother and placed in a sanatorium, undoubtedly an excruciating experience but one that Sherlock would only characterize later as stultifyingly boring.

Sherlock returned the following year, a bit thinner and looking even more vulnerable in Ichabod's eyes, and that was when they had become lovers.

Ichabod had been shocked to discover that Sherlock had already experienced sex with both women and men. For Ichabod, Sherlock was a heady mixture of first love, first sex, overwhelming intensity, and constant sparring.

The year away had changed Sherlock, but it must have changed Ichabod, too. Ichabod was willing to disagree with Sherlock in spite of the fact that Ichabod was usually proven wrong. They would have a verbal argument that would escalate in acerbity until they couldn’t help but rush back to their room where they would fuck their arguments into oblivion.

Ichabod was sure that he was in love with Sherlock, but he couldn't say if Sherlock was ever in love with him, at least by any normal person's definition. Was he more important to Sherlock than anyone else? Undoubtedly yes. Did that constitute love for Sherlock? Only he could say, and he never had.

The arguments ranged the gamut, from how to reform the government to how to best sneak past the porter to escape to town. The bitterest were about the future and what Ichabod wanted to do. Ichabod knew that Sherlock was a singularly bright-burning star in an otherwise dimly lit universe. He would go on to do amazing things. Ichabod was just one of those far more ordinary stars, and after getting his education, he planned to return to San Francisco and continue his family's work as the local retriever of spelled items. Sherlock strongly disagreed. Sherlock had immediately sussed out the fact of Ichabod's eidetic memory, and he said it was a gift to be mindfully used. Ichabod could still hear in his mind Sherlock's sarcastic comment when Ichabod had said his memory would be very useful for keeping a mental catalog of the spelled items in his inventory.

"Please, Ichabod," Sherlock sneered. "We will soon have machines to do that. Surely you are more than just a machine."

Sherlock began to do things apart from Ichabod, although he didn't do them with anyone else that Ichabod was aware of. Perhaps Sherlock had not meant to push Ichabod away, but that was how it felt at the time, and Ichabod decided that if Sherlock didn't want him, he would be wanted elsewhere.

Sex became Ichabod's drug of choice, and Ichabod was conscious that his height and looks were desirable currency for getting what he wanted. He slept his way through all willing partners in his class and above and one professor whose morals Ichabod only found suspect in retrospect. He was not really even aware of what he was doing until the day Sherlock presented him with a chart.

"What is this?" asked Ichabod upon being handed what looked like a ledger such as those used in their accountancy courses.

"I have been charting your sexual encounters for the last five months, and I thought you would find the trends in the data interesting," Sherlock explained.

"You did, did you?" Ichabod replied furiously. "I don't want your carefully charted data points, and I don't need you to continue analyzing my life. Just stay out of it, won't you?"

But Sherlock never had stopped. He figured out Ichabod's disastrous relationships before he ever said a word, including those with the Albion siblings and Katrina Moloch. He always laid put the facts for Ichabod to deal with, as painful as they might have been for Ichabod to face. Not until much later did Ichabod realize this was how Sherlock showed he still cared.

Just as Ichabod didn't realize until much later what the chart of his sex life really represented. While it did point to his preference for very curvaceous women (23 of the 29 female data points fit that category) and men who were significantly shorter than he (21 of the 27 male data points in the sample), more importantly, it showed that Sherlock was still very much aware of him and his life even though they could hardly be in the same confined space without bickering. Plus Sherlock never officially moved out. Sherlock's things remained, and while Sherlock was only an intermittent occupant the remaining years of their university-level studies, Sherlock still ended up sleeping in their room often enough that Ichabod never lost the feeling that the room was theirs and not just his.

The second level was harder to define. It was as if Sherlock was not pushing him away but rather pulling him in. Their meetings over the years had always been friendly, but they had been decidedly neutral. This time, if Ichabod had to describe Sherlock's behavior, he would say it was bordering on flirtatious, at least for Sherlock. What else could he read into the fact that Sherlock asked him to help in cataloging the murder site? And dinner? He could barely recall Sherlock eating except out of sheer necessity. This was completely social. Or so it looked.

And Ichabod couldn't help but notice Sherlock's complete ignorance of Andy's existence, at least until it gave Sherlock a chance to shine in front of a new audience. Not a word from Sherlock about Andy when Sherlock had never shied from unasked for commentary on all his previous lovers and relationships. What was going on in that mind palace of his?

"The fettuccine carbonara is very good," said John. They were all seated at Angelo's and considering the menu.

"It's essentially the only dish John ever orders," commented Sherlock.

John smiled and said, "I've always thought it was good practice to stick with a good thing once you've found it."

"John's loyalty aside, I would recommend the veal piccata and the osso bucco, if you are looking for something heartier."

Ichabod couldn't help staring at Sherlock. Menu recommendations? He noticed John and Greg were giving Sherlock a sideways glance as well. Andy was the only one who thought this was the normal behavior of someone who invited you out to dinner.

"They all sound great," said Andy, "but I'm of the school that finds everything goes better with bacon, so I'm going with the carbonara."

John appeared quite chuffed at having someone take his recommendation, probably a rare occurrence for someone trailing in Sherlock's wake. Ichabod ordered the veal piccata, which actually garnered a raised eyebrow from Sherlock.

Ichabod looked at John Watson while Greg discussed wine with the waiter. If Ichabod was not mistaken, John and Sherlock were partners in more than a business sense but not in a physical relationship sense. Ichabod followed the blog that John had started about Sherlock's cases about nine months ago, and he was surprised that Sherlock was letting someone close enough to do so. Now he could see them together in person, and they clearly knew each other well, judging by their mutual reactions or lack thereof to each other's actions and words. But Ichabod could be wrong about the physical relationship. He had never been able to accurately read Sherlock, especially if Sherlock knew he was trying to, so the two could well be going at it on every available surface in their apartment for all he knew.

John was very different from Ichabod, but he would never have said that Sherlock had a type. However, John seemed a bit ordinary for Sherlock. He was not handsome, but he was attractive. He looked close to 40, but age was not something Ichabod generally really considered. He was getting a bit soft around the middle, but he was generally fit, he guessed. It wasn't easy to tell under the bulky jumper and loose fitting jeans. He was considerate and well-mannered, and he and Andy seemed to get along well. Greg obviously liked him. Ichabod had no doubt John got along with almost everyone. Which made it all the more peculiar that one, he put up with Sherlock, and two, that Sherlock put up with John.

Ichabod snapped out of this rumination at the arrival of the food. Andy and John both tucked into their cream-laden pasta with relish, giving each other a happy smile at their first bites. Greg had chosen eggplant marinara, and Sherlock was reminding him that a vegetable slathered in cheese and oil was not healthier than eating meat.

Ichabod cut a slice of the veal, dipping it into the sauce of lemon and capers. It was delicious.

"Cabo!?"

Ichabod looked at Greg.

"Andy's been trying to get your attention. I agree one can bliss out on Angelo's veal."

"I was just asking what you had planned for tomorrow," said Andy.

"Nothing in particular," Ichabod replied. "I wanted to make sure you saw the changing of the guard and the Tower of London, but those are available any day. Why?"

"John was telling me about this horrible tourist attraction called the London Dungeon, and it sounds fantastic."

"You can't be serious," Sherlock exclaimed.

"Just because you don't find it authentic doesn't mean it's not fun," countered John.

"Using the word authentic, even in the negative, to describe the London Dungeon is an insult to testimonials in advertising."

"Andy seems keen," John insisted.

"Fine," declared Sherlock. "You take Andy to that poor excuse for a tourist trap, and I'll take Ichabod for a trip to Stanthorpe."

"But... " exclaimed Andy and Ichabod, nearly in unison.

Sherlock turned to Ichabod. "Surely you can bear to be parted for a day. And I assure you he is in good hands with John."

Ichabod wondered yet again what was going on. He looked to Greg, who was maintaining a neutral silence. Greg shrugged. He looked to Andy, who was looking worriedly between Sherlock and John. Andy finally looked at Ichabod and raise his eyebrows, which Ichabod knew meant it was okay with him if it was okay with Ichabod.

"Very well," said Ichabod. "We'll meet up for dinner."

"What's in Stanthorpe?" asked John. It was clear this was the first he had heard of such a trip.

Sherlock didn't answer John, instead turning to Ichabod to say, "There's a 9:15 out of King's Cross."

"Where and when do we meet?" Andy directed this question to John

"Where are you staying?" John asked.

"The Hilton at Paddington," Sherlock replied before either Andy or Ichabod could reply, and of course he was right.

"Just a short haul from Baker Street. I'll meet you in the lobby at 10?"

"Since I'm leaving so early to travel with Sherlock, why don't you keep Andy company over breakfast?" If Sherlock wanted to shake things up, Ichabod could well throw more irons into the fire.

"That would be great," said Andy. "Say 8:30?"

"Ninety minutes for breakfast?" exclaimed Sherlock.

"Andy has always given a good breakfast the attention it deserves," Ichabod said. Andy smiled at him across the table, and Ichabod felt a happy warmth fill him.

"A man who appreciates the pleasures of a good breakfast. After my own heart," added John.

"Alas, John, he already has mine," Ichabod had to state.

To Ichabod's satisfaction, Sherlock was now sulking. Tomorrow, Ichabod would irritate an explanation out of Sherlock for his strange behavior, one way or another.


	4. Sherlock

Sherlock was actually quite impressed that Ichabod managed to restrain himself for so long. The Ichabod he had once known would never have been this patient.

Sherlock had met Ichabod in front of the Boots at King's Cross Station at a quarter to nine, and they had proceeded to the automated ticket machine to get their tickets for the short trip to Stanthorpe. Ichabod had insisted on stopping for a coffee and a pastry since he had not eaten anything before leaving the hotel. Ichabod nibbled his way through the pastry, interspersed with sips of coffee, and so they passed the few minutes before the train pulled in at a little past nine. Ichabod followed Sherlock onto the train and sat opposite him. Ichabod then finished the pastry and continued to sip his coffee, looking out the window at the morning crowd.

The train had just jerked into motion when Ichabod looked Sherlock squarely in the eye and said, "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

Sherlock knew exactly what Ichabod was asking about, but he couldn't help himself where Ichabod was concerned. "There was a recent death in Stanthorpe that has bearing on the murder we observed yesterday. My contact with the Stanthorpe constabulary can get us five minutes in the victim's flat. While I will probably pick up all I need to in that time, given the short time frame for observation, it seemed wise to bring you along in case I need to revisit the scene vicariously."

Ichabod gave Sherlock a frown, and Sherlock smiled internally. He did love riling Ichabod up. "That is not what I meant, and you well know it," said Ichabod. "You take us out to dinner, you even give menu suggestions, you completely ignore my partner, you essentially push Andy and John into going off together - whether to get them or us alone, I cannot tell, and you have failed even once to offer advice about my current life choices. In short, you are behaving totally unlike yourself, which means that something is going on in that mind palace of yours."

Sherlock refused to let Ichabod see how pleased he was at how well Ichabod had read him. Instead, he assumed his blandest expression, the one almost guaranteed to most irritate Ichabod, and proceeded to address his points one by one. "I have not seen you in five years, so I do not see that paying for dinner is that extraordinary. I agree that offering menu suggestions is not my usual predilection, however, John has only one favorite dish at Angelo's, and I felt it incumbent upon myself to offer you at least two other alternatives. As for Andrew, I have not ignored him. If you will recall, he and I conducted an exchange at the murder scene. He appears to be a sensible man, and he seems to fulfill everything you have ever desired in a partner. John has an unhealthy appreciation for the London Dungeon, and if anyone voluntarily indulges him, I fully support it in order to forestall any attempt on his part to get me to go with him. It's like an addiction, an affliction that you well know I am very familiar with, and a visit with Andrew will satisfy John for at least six months. Which leads me to the final item and the one that I know is actually what bothers you the most. You want to know why I have not criticized your current life choices. The simple answer is that I have nothing to criticize."

That definitely stopped Ichabod, and Ichabod sat silently for a minute. Sherlock was not, however, surprised when he rallied. "His name is Andy, not Andrew. It is not a diminutive, it is a transliteration of his Chinese name. That was hardly an exchange. You only talked to him because he gave you a chance to show off to a new audience. As for the rest of your explanation, you may be very practiced in prevaricating, but I know you, and the balance of that monologue was bullshit."

Sherlock was a bit taken aback. Ichabod only descended into using profanity when truly upset, and while Sherlock enjoyed teasing him, he actually did not want to anger him. This was too important.

"Do you like John?" Sherlock asked.

As he expected, Ichabod was thrown by the question. "I hardly know the man," said Ichabod. "He seems nice enough, and he and Andy appear to get along." Ichabod paused and gave Sherlock an assessing look. "And that's another thing. There is clearly more to you and John Watson than just working partners. You share a flat, and from what I can tell, you are very close. But what it is about him? He seems too ordinary to interest you."

Sherlock bit down a heated retort. He knew how to get to Ichabod, but he realized Ichabod knew how to get to him, too. Still, he had to say something in John's defense. "John Watson is far from ordinary. And I am frankly quite surprised that a man of your broadmindedness would even suggest that our sharing a flat had any meaning beyond the obvious. John Watson works with me. I had an extra bedroom, and he needed a place to stay. I work odd hours. Ergo, having John Watson rent my extra room makes complete sense even without your hamfisted innuendo."

When Sherlock was finished, he was thoroughly irritated to see Ichabod smiling at him. In spite of his intention, Sherlock had not remained his usual collected self. He could with everyone. Except with Ichabod, and not when it came to John Watson.

"So what's going on, Sherlock?" Ichabod said gently.

Sherlock knew that he would explain to Ichabod eventually, but he wasn't quite ready. Mercifully, the train was almost at Stanthorpe station. "We are at our destination, Ichabod. We will resume this conversation when we have finished what we have come here to do."

.....

It was short walk from the station to an ordinary semi-detached brick row house, one amidst many, where a nervous looking young man in a beige raincoat was waiting for them. Sherlock knew that his contact, PC Whitside, was only allowing Sherlock a look inside the house because of his earlier help with a case involving the PC's sister, but if he wanted to avoid being noticed and identified as a police constable, wearing a raincoat on a sunny summer afternoon to hide his telltale uniform was not the way to go about it.

No matter. PC Whitside unlocked the front door, his furtive glances before doing so a sure giveaway to anyone watching that he was not supposed to be doing this. The three slipped into the darkness of the empty house and PC Whitside closed the front door behind them.

"I'll just stay here and wait for you. You have five minutes and then we have to leave. I'm supposed to be walking my beat, and there are regulars around here who'll notice if I don't pass by close to my usual time."

"Five minutes is all we need," reassured Sherlock. Looking at Ichabod, he said, "Come. Let us make the most of our five minutes."

There was no body this time, the body having been removed two days ago when it was discovered. It was only the pathology report that indicated that the cause of death was carbon monoxide poisoning that caught Sherlock's attention after seeing the body of Carolin von Tassen. PC Whitside said there was no sign of what caused the poisoning, and as far as the local police could tell, there was nothing connected to the death in the house.

"What are we looking for?" asked Ichabod, who was walking around the kitchen where the body had been found. The kitchen was in no way special, and Sherlock was sure the kitchen itself was not relevant to the death. What they needed to examine were the objects in the kitchen.

"There are spelled objects here," said Ichabod, looking at the counter by the sink where there were empty takeaway containers, a crumpled carrier bag, a few napkins, and a packet of soy sauce. "Why are they still here? Didn't the police already check this out?"

"This is outside London, Ichabod," Sherlock reminded him. "Not every police force has someone who can sense spelled objects, and if the death is not particularly suspicious, they don't call one in. We're lucky family haven't already come in to clean up the place."

Ichabod had walked to the sink. "I would say the spelled objects are the pair of chopsticks in one of the takeaway boxes."

Sherlock joined him. "And not the cause of the carbon monoxide poisoning, if I'm not mistaken. That means there were two spelled objects in this kitchen, one which killed the victim and one which didn't."

Ichabod had pulled an object bag from his pocket, and using one of the napkins, picked up the food stained chopsticks and dropped them into the bag.

Sherlock looked around the kitchen again. There was nothing on the counters other than a bowl of apples and a dishtowel. There was a small stack of opened envelopes on the kitchen table. He had probably been eating as he looked through his mail. Sherlock flipped through the mail and found little of interest. The envelopes confirmed the victim's name, Maurice Fairhaven, and the fact that he paid his gas and electricity bills through automatic payment. PC Whitside had told him that Fairhaven was a lecturer in economics at West London University.

Ichabod was looking at the various objects stuck to the refrigerator. "Sherlock, it looks like Fairhaven is a Lamberton alumnus as well." Ichabod pointed to a card, which Sherlock recognized as the celebration invitation.

"We'll need to find out what class Fairhaven was in and see if that connects him to Carolin von Tassen. If you could look through this mail on his table, I think we have seen what there is to see."

Sherlock went to the refrigerator and removed the invitation from the door. He turned it over, but there was nothing on the other side apart from the printed design. He replaced it and looked at the other objects on the door. There was a parking ticket with the words "This is a joke" scrawled in red. A card-sized calendar from a Stanthorpe petrol station. A postcard reminder of an appointment with his GP next month.

PC Whitside stuck his head into the kitchen. "Done?" he asked anxiously. "I really have to get back to my patrol."

Sherlock looked at Ichabod, who nodded. "We are done. Let us go."

.....

Sherlock and Ichabod parted ways with PC Whitside, who looked quite relieved to remove the stifling raincoat, and they headed back to the station.

"Two Lambertonians," said Ichabod. "That seems too much of a coincidence."

"Four," replied Sherlock. "And it is not."

"What?" exclaimed Ichabod. "What do you mean four?"

"Knowing you," said Sherlock, "you already know about the other two. You just didn't know that they were also murdered."

Sherlock kept walking, knowing Ichabod needed the time to process what he had just said. After three minutes, Ichabod looked at Sherlock in confusion. "Do you mean the two deaths from the class of 1971? But that was last summer, almost a year ago."

Sherlock smiled. Ichabod was not at his level, but Ichabod was not stupid. "Two deaths of alumni under suspicious circumstances. Both had clearly been held and tormented in some way before being killed. I figured out the spell that had been used to incapacitate them, which led us to the witch that had created the objects that triggered the spell. She had been unable to lead us to the person who commissioned the spelled objects, but after we caught her, the deaths stopped."

"What do you mean tormented?" asked Ichabod. "Do you mean tortured?"

They had arrived at the station, and they took the over-crossing to get to the platform for trains headed back to London. "Not tortured in the normal sense," explained Sherlock. "The two men were not beaten or bruised. No open wounds. However, it was clear they were held against their will, and each of them had three things in common. An irritant had been placed into their eyes. Both of them had pricks in the index finger of their right hands, such as used to be found in individuals who had to monitor their glucose levels on a regular basis. And each of them had been brought to orgasm while being restrained."

Ichabod looked puzzled. "Not forced into oral or anal sex. Someone just jerked them off?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Some Americanisms are best left on the other side of the ocean. But you are correct."

"And you think these are connected?"

Sherlock answered, "There is clearly a connection in method between the first two last summer and the second two. And all four were Lamberton Academy alumni. They are obviously connected by that fact alone, but the reason for the connection is not yet clear."

"Why would someone wait a full year in between victims? And the one we saw yesterday had not been messed with in any way that I could see."

"No, she had not," agreed Sherlock. "A picture is coming together, but I am afraid there will be another death before it becomes clearer."

Ichabod was silent for a while. "Is this what you deal with all the time? When I read John's blog about your cases, the focus is on your amazing observations and deductions. There is nothing about how you must feel, knowing someone else is going to be hurt or die before you can figure out the case."

It was Sherlock's turn to be silent. He didn't let that side of him show with most people, and aside from John, Ichabod was the only one who knew that such realities did indeed weigh on him. Like Sally Donovan, most people thought he was devoid of feelings, essentially a walking computer, and Sherlock let most people think that because it made it easier to do the job he did. Feelings changed how people acted, and when they assumed Sherlock didn't have any, they were surprisingly more open, more careless, more revealing.

This was another reason Ichabod was the right person.

The train for London pulled into the station and forestalled conversation until they had seated themselves once again.

"Where to now?" asked Ichabod. "The London Dungeon?"

Sherlock smirked, "That will remain a pleasure for John and Andy alone. We are off to Belgravia."

"What's in Belgravia?"

"My witch, of course. We have yet to fully analyze the capsules, and now we have the chopsticks as well. I am quite sure that she will determine that they were not the cause of the deaths, but I need to eliminate that possibility."

Ichabod nodded. Ichabod turned to look out the window, and Sherlock knew that Ichabod was readying himself to take up the conversation that they had interrupted upon their arrival in Stanthorpe. He might as well move things along.

"I need to make sure that John Watson is happy."

Ichabod's attention immediately snapped from the scenery back to Sherlock. "That sounds suspiciously like a declaration of affection."

Sherlock shrugged. "There is really no point in arguing the point. The fact is that I care about John Watson very much."

Ichabod adopted a sweet smile that told Sherlock immediately that Ichabod understood nothing. "I can see that you two are very close," said Ichabod, "but I confess that I have not gotten the feeling that you two are involved physically. Maybe you don't want to be demonstrative in front of me, but I wouldn't mind. I would be, I am, very happy for you."

Sherlock sighed. Ichabod leapt to the wrong conclusion as he so often did. "John and I are not in a sexual relationship. Not that I would be adverse to the idea. While John has been exclusively involved in sexual relations with women in the past, he is clearly interested in establishing a deeper emotional connection with me, including the possibility of sex."

"Then I don't see what the problem is."

"You have always been obtuse, Ichabod, when it comes to me. The problem is that I am not good for John Watson. I may care for him, but I am not generally considerate - neither of his space or of his feelings. I often focus too much on my work, and I end up ignoring those around me."

"From what I've seen, he doesn't seem to mind your lack of consideration. He seems to know you and accept you as you are."

"And that, exactly, is what makes John Watson an exceptional man. A man who deserves someone who is considerate and caring, someone who can give him the attention and affection that a man like him should have. Something he will never get from me."

Ichabod had leaned forward to listen, but now he threw himself back into his seat, clearly frustrated. "So what now, are you going to push him away?"

"It's the right thing to do," said Sherlock. And because it still hurt him to think of it, he added very quietly, "Just as it was the right thing to do with you."

Sherlock could see Ichabod struggling to contain himself. He could well imagine what Ichabod was itching to say, but Ichabod was a good man, and he would not say things like that because he would want to say something to help the situation, not make it worse. Ichabod gradually pulled himself to stillness, looked Sherlock in the eye, and said, "I can't deny it. It was the right thing for you to push me away. I would never have let go, but we would never have worked it out. I can see now that we are much better for being friends, and we can only be friends because we stopped being lovers."

Sherlock could see that Ichabod's eyes were moist. Pushing Ichabod away had been one of the hardest things he had ever done, but he was glad that Ichabod could see it was the right thing at the time.

"But that doesn't mean that pushing John away is the right thing to do now."

Sherlock knew Ichabod would make that argument. "I have not changed in all the decades you have known me. I am much as I was when we met, and I was not a good prospect for a relationship then, and I am not a good prospect for a relationship now."

Sherlock was surprised when Ichabod laughed. "How can you, the great observer, be so unaware. Of course you have changed. When we met, neither of us knew who we were. We were still figuring it out, and it became clear that the men we were becoming were not going to work in a relationship. But John, John has come to you as you are now. He takes you as you are. He is not some college boy in the throes of first love."

Sherlock couldn't help but feel a sense of comfort at Ichabod's words, but he was convinced about what should be done. "You make a good point, but I still do not consider myself an optimal choice for a life partner. John deserves to have someone who will take care of him, although the whole situation is quite ironic when I consider it."

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?"

Sherlock chuckled. "When I first met John Watson, I could see how perfect he was for you. He had the attributes that you were attracted to. I could sense that while he had not had experience with men that he was open to a relationship with another man. He was a former soldier, not to mention a field doctor, who could well take care of himself and you. Did I mention that one of the first things John did was to shoot a man from a distance of over 100 metres, through two panes of glass no less, preventing him from shooting me?"

"You are really confusing me now, Sherlock. What are you planning?"

"I wanted to get to know him further to make sure, and then I was going to bring the two of you together. Strangely enough, the more I got to know John, the more I realized it was John I needed to protect. And who better to do so than you?"

Ichabod was sputtering nonsense syllables, which Sherlock chose to ignore. Sherlock needed to make clear to Ichabod what had to be done and why it was the right thing to do.

Sherlock continued, "You finally show up in London, however, with a lover in tow. At first, I thought it would derail my plans, but the more I have observed your Andy and how well he gets along with John, I realize that there should be no problem with you having two life partners."

"Are you out of your mind?" Ichabod was nearly shouting, and Sherlock could tell that Ichabod was not convinced.

"Far from it," Sherlock assured him. "Based on my observations, Andy and John get along very well and find each other physically attractive. You are an excellent partner, and I have no doubt they would both be well taken care of, physically and emotionally, by you. While some polygamous relationships can be difficult, John and Andy appear to have common interests, and I think the fact that they are visiting The London Dungeon together speaks volumes. I think this time together, just the two of them, only helps to cement their relationship."

Ichabod was actually red in the face, but Sherlock could tell it was not anger. It was incredulity. "Sherlock Holmes," Ichabod hissed. "You may be the world's greatest consulting detective, if John's blog is to be believed, but when it comes to personal relationships, you have the insight of a one-year old. I take that back. Of a fetus."

"If I have judged things correctly, they should be exchanging a kiss in our flat in Baker Street as we speak."

Later, Sherlock had to admit that Ichabod's actions were not completely unjustified but of little consequence. To be honest, Ichabod had never been able to punch his way out of a paper sack.


	5. Andy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little morning interlude at the start of the chapter, which gives this story its explicit rating.

The inconsequential dream languidly coalesced into a very pleasurable one. There was little shape to the dream, but the sensations were more than nice, warm, and tingling, and slick. Andy fluttered into the very welcome consciousness of Ichabod taking long strokes of Andy's morning erection with his incredible mouth. Andy moaned his appreciation, and he could hear Ichabod chuckle in response.

"You," Andy managed, "are the best alarm clock ever."

Ichabod lifted off of Andy with a soft pop, and Andy felt a jolt of pleasure arc down the length of his cock. "You did say you needed to get up by 7:30."

"I didn't anticipate getting woken up so early could be so nice."

"I would say you were nicely and firmly up even before I started. And I should get back to it, don't you think?"

Actually, thinking was not one of his better skills when Ichabod had his cock so tightly in his mouth.

When Ichabod began to tease around Andy's hole with a moist finger, Andy forgot what thinking was altogether. The combined sensation of Ichabod sucking him down while toying lightly with his hole soon had Andy thrusting and arching.

"Oh, God," Andy cried. His heart was pounding, and he could feel his pulse ratcheting up. He thrust his cock deeper into Ichabod's moist heat and groaned. He arched, forcing Ichabod's finger deeper into his ass. He couldn't help it, his body seeking out its pleasure in a rocking of his hips up and down.

Andy felt Ichabod crook his finger inside him, and on the next rocking down, Ichabod's fingertip traced a firm bolt of ecstasy inside him. Andy was whipping up and down now, his body needing more friction around his cock and inside his ass. Andy could feel his orgasm building, like the pulling of a bowstring, and with a shout, he fired his release into Ichabod's amazing mouth.

Andy lay back, breath ragged, and let his body return to normal. Slowly, his higher order functions returned, and he was able to remember where he was.

"If that could ever be built into an alarm clock, it would sell more units than a new iPhone." Andy sighed and ran his hand through the tangle of Ichabod's sweaty hair, his head lying on his hip.

"And what about you, Mr. Crane? Can I return the favor?"

Ichabod traced a finger down Andy's right thigh and left a cool trail in its wake.

"I am a multitasking man," Ichabod hummed. "Not to mention the sight of you losing control is enough to make me come by itself."

"You came?"

"I shamelessly humped your silkily smooth thigh, and I am finger painting designs on your skin with my come even now."

Andy reached down and brought Ichabod's artistic digit to his mouth and licked it clean, whereupon Ichabod pulled himself up Andy's body to press his body fully into the bed with his own, and his mouth claiming Andy's beneath his.

There were a few minutes of wet lips and eager tongues before Ichabod pulled away.

"I'm afraid our morning idyll is at an end, and I must shower and make myself presentable for Sherlock." Ichabod lifted himself off Andy, and Andy enjoyed the ceaselessly attractive backside of his partner as he walked into the bathroom.

Andy lay back since he would take over the bathroom only after Ichabod was done. They had talked a fair bit before falling asleep, much as they always did. Andy was very curious about Sherlock, and Ichabod told him about rooming together throughout their later teens and into their twenties. Andy wasn't surprised at all when Ichabod confessed that he had probably been in love with Sherlock, but they were too different or too the same, and the physical part of their relationship ended but not their emotional connection.

Ichabod told Andy a little of what it was like to get Sherlock back after a serious addiction to cocaine. Sherlock had been so frail looking but fierce and angry, and Sherlock would snap at Ichabod every time he treated Sherlock too gently. Sherlock did not make friends easily, which led to talk about Greg Lestrade and John Watson.

Andy thought John Watson was a perfectly nice guy, which Ichabod did not dispute.

"But that is precisely the point," Ichabod emphasized. "Sherlock doesn't do nice. It's boring for him."

They had been getting ready for bed, and Andy slipped between the sheets, looking fondly at Ichabod as he pulled off his socks. "You're nice," said Andy, "and Sherlock didn't find you boring."

"I'm not that nice," said Ichabod. "I was quite a selfish prat when I was young. I'm only nice now because I'm older and wiser and have good incentives for being nice."

"Much, much, older," joked Andy, giving Ichabod a kiss before nuzzling into his neck with Ichabod's arms and legs wrapped around him.

"You'll have to figure John Watson out for me," murmured Ichabod sleepily.

"Maybe there's nothing to figure out," replied Andy.

.....

John Watson was waiting in the lobby when Andy came down a little past eight. He had probably arrived promptly on time, respectful of other people's time.

They walked out of the back of the hotel lobby into the rear mezzanine of Paddington Station, where several food counters were located. However, they had time, so Andy directed them to the entrance of a gastropub on the same floor that served a full English breakfast.

They were seated in a window banquette that gave on to the busy station below.

"This is a treat. Sherlock hardly considers eating a vital bodily function, so breakfast is usually a slice of toast and a few gulps of scalding tea." John looked around the pub happily.

"And it's my treat," said Andy. "I'm on vacation, so this is not real money."

The server took their orders, which only differed in how they took their eggs and their hot beverage of choice.

"I should warn you," began Andy, "that Ichabod has instructed me to find out all I can about you."

"Ah," smiled John. "The former lover and now protective friend."

"Not exactly," smiled Andy back. It was hard not to respond in kind, John was so sincere, but with a sense of humor. "Ichabod just can't figure out Sherlock. You seem like such a nice guy, and Ichabod says Sherlock disdains nice."

John looked down into his tea. "I can't actually answer that. Sherlock is an amazing man, and I know he's a total prat with almost everyone, but for whatever reason, he keeps me around."

"Then there's obviously something that he sees under that surface niceness."

"Isn't there always?" John had looked up again and was looking directly at Andy. It was Andy's turn to hide inside his coffee cup. "I wonder what secrets lurk behind your pleasant exterior. Sherlock knows there's something, but he can't figure out what it is. He likes a good puzzle, by the way."

"Sherlock has barely spared me a glance."

"He's throwing you off the scent. I have it on reliable authority that he has been analyzing you since he saw you with Ichabod, if not from the moment he heard about you."

"The protective former lover thing I'm guessing."

"They make quite a pair, don't they?"

Breakfast arrived, and conversation was temporarily suspended in order to give proper homage to this celebration of fat, grease, and the token vegetable in the form of a fried tomato.

His immediate hunger satisfied, Andy proceeded to mop up the yolk from his fried egg with a piece of toast at a more leisurely pace. He looked at John, who was buttering his own toast, and asked, "So how did you and Sherlock meet?"

"I actually met Sherlock through Greg Lestrade. He and I did some military service together although he was actually a liaison for the government and I was just a field medic."

"You're a doctor, then?"

"My skills have been quite handy since my partner is rather reckless. He is brilliant at reading objects and dead bodies and sees everything, but he doesn't read people well at all, so I'm often staunching a major nose bleed or treating bruises and black eyes."

"You sound like a very good partner for a consulting detective."

"THE consulting detective. I've copyrighted the title for my blog, I'll have you know."

Andy noticed they had both polished their plates clean with bits of toast. "Where were you serving when you met Greg?"

"That was Iraq. A rough business all around. Greg was there with Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. Very high up in the British government."

"Did you serve anywhere else?"

"Everywhere. South America. Eastern Europe. Mostly the Middle East."

"Sounds like you were making it a career. Why did you come home?"

"A casualty of war. I was nearly killed in a sniper attack. The bullets essentially tore up my shoulder, and it took me almost six months to recover. I wasn't considered useful military material afterwards."

Andy could hear the notes of sadness and bitterness in John's voice. This wasn't a man who hid very much. "So what happened after you recovered?"

"I wandered around, living on a meagre pension, feeling sorry for myself mostly, and on the verge of becoming homeless."

"And Greg hooked you up with Sherlock."

It was like the return of the sun after a long winter. John's face lit up from within. "Greg was convinced Sherlock needed some help, but the search for someone had been unsuccessful up to that point. I ran into Greg at St. Bart's, where I had to do my check ins and he was coming from the morgue. We hadn't seen each other in at least a year, but he gave me Sherlock's address, and five minutes after I met him, I was chasing after him on a case, and I've been trying to keep up ever since."

When John looked so happy, he was beautiful. Andy felt good just looking at the joy behind his eyes, and Sherlock had to be pretty amazing to have that effect on John. "Ichabod reads your blog, but he says you're like a cipher. The largely unknown chronicler. You are so vague about yourself that Ichabod wondered if Sherlock was actually doing the blog himself and hiding behind a straw man."

"Sherlock writing a blog?! That'll be the day," exclaimed John.

"That's what Ichabod concluded as well. So when he finally met you, he was especially intrigued."

Andy asked if John wanted more tea and settled the bill when John declined.

"It's time for The London Dungeon," said John as they headed down into the Underground. "Be prepared for another treat."

.....

Andy should have been prepared for all the groaning. The feeble recorded groans of the manaquins in the dioramas and Andy's groans at how cheesy it all was. There were bodies strapped to racks, a body impaled in an iron maiden, and a man with a cage of rats fastened around his head. They were actually able to walk right up to the exhibits, and that's where they went from potentially horrifying to pathetically kitsch. Because of liability concerns, everything was well illuminated to prevent accidental litigious falls. Horror needs shadow to be effective. The bright lights made clear the flaking paint, Velcro closures, wigs askew, and electrical cables taped up the side of the iron maiden.

By the time they had reached the exit, both of them were laughing so hard that Andy could barely stand.

"That is truly the worst chamber of purported horrors I have ever been through," gasped Andy between breaths.

"Hysterically worth it, though, wasn't it?"

"Totally." Andy was feeling calmer now and asked, "Where to next? More treats in store?"

John gave Andy an impish look. "What do you say to some sandwiches and then a search through our flat for Sherlock's year books?"

Andy couldn't help it. He really liked this man. "You're on. I want crayfish and rocket again."

.....

Andy was quite relieved they had eaten the sandwiches at the place they had bought them. When he walked into John and Sherlock's flat, he was immediately assaulted with a horrible chemical odor that also stung his eyes.

"Let me get the window before you come in any further. I didn't know the specimens were going to reek like that." John disappeared into the flat, and after a bit of thumping, he called out, "It's safe, safer, to enter."

John appeared a bit sheepish as Andy looked around. On the one hand, it was a rather fusty old flat with discolored flocked wallpaper that probably used to be red. There was a comfortably worn looking couch, with an arm chair at one end. A much stained coffee table had a section of the paper on it, open to the crossword. On the fireplace mantle, there was an oddly cheerful looking skull. A violin sat on a straight backed chair next to a music stand.

The dining table was clearly the source of the chemical fumes. There were six petri dishes with a green culture in each in various stages of development.

John must have been tracking Andy's gaze because he explained, "Cultures of bacteria that grow on rotting leather. Useful for identifying types of shoes after they have been buried for a while. Cow leather only in this case. Sherlock is always adding data to his personal information base of death and decay. By the way, don't under any circumstances open the refrigerator."

Andy simply nodded.

"I can promise there are culture-free mugs. A cuppa?"

"Sure," said Andy. "Where do we look for the year books?"

"Check the bookcases behind the couch. You may have to shove the couch forward to get to them. I've never seen these yearbooks, so I don't even know if Sherlock has a set, but I'm guessing he does, and behind the couch is one place I've never looked for anything."

Andy did as he was instructed while John properly did the tea. John was carrying two mugs to the coffee table when Andy found them. Six matching volumes in a greenish cloth binding. Very institutional looking. He pulled them out and lay them on the table next to their tea. Andy sat on the floor while John sat on the couch just next to him.

"54-55, 55-56, but no 56-57," noted Andy.

"Probably the year he basically spent in a sanatorium."

"Ichabod mentioned that to me."

"Oh, God. Look at them." John held up the 55-56 volume, opened to the class page of individual portraits. A very young Sherlock scowled from the page, a softer version of his adult angularity but distinctively him. The portrait of Ichabod was of a happy boy, lanky and tall, with a toothy smile and soft curls in wild disarray.

"I would never have guessed he had curly hair," commented Andy.

John took the volume back and leafed through it. Andy picked up the last volume in the series, 60-61. Ichabod and Sherlock were near the front since they were now the graduating senior class of what would be the equivalent of college back home. They were clearly younger then, but hardly changed from their present appearance. There were words printed under each picture.

Andy read Sherlock's entry aloud. "Sherlock Holmes, most likely to weigh the scales of justice and find them wanting."

John laughed. "That's very Sherlock. Is there an entry for Ichabod?"

Andy read through it first. "Rather racy for 1961. 'Ichabod Crane, most likely to never be disappointed in the person he sleeps with.' I think they would simply label him 'slut' today."

John suddenly looked thoughtful. "I wonder about Carolin von Tassen. I wonder what they wrote about her. "

Andy put down the yearbook and picked up his tea and took a sip. He looked at John over the lip and wondered how he hadn't seen what made John so special from the beginning. He may be quite ordinary in many external ways, but he was kind, thoughtful, empathetic, yet tough. A blend of characteristics rarely found in anyone.

Andy put down his cup. He decided to go for it and simply asked, "So are you and Sherlock boyfriends?"

He expected John to laugh it off, but he didn't. Instead he went quiet. Finally he said, "So you can see it. That means Sherlock must but doesn't want that."

"I can tell he cares for you a lot, and Ichabod told me you had to be special to Sherlock."

John shook his head and put on a rueful smile. "I'm an idiot. Sherlock has already given me so much. He makes me feel alive again. I have purpose. He gives me his friendship, which he gives to almost no one else. I should be happy with that."

"But you're not. You want more."

John nodded slowly. "For a long time, I didn't even know what I wanted. I've never had a physical relationship with another bloke. I thought maybe I just wanted to be best mates. But we are that already, and I still want more."

"Have you told him how you feel?"

John huffed. "He's the world's only consulting detective. He sees everything, knows everything, especially about me. He already knows."

What could Andy say to that. He had never really struggled in love, and the fates conspired to keep his choices simple. Even Ichabod was hardly a struggle, Katrina Moloch aside.

John continued, "And then to find out he and Ichabod were lovers. From the way Sherlock described it, Ichabod made his toes curl. How can I compete with that? I've never even kissed a bloke."

Andy said nothing but could feel his face redden, but he ignored it.

He couldn't quite say afterwards what made him do it, but before he knew it, he had risen to his knees, turned, and pulled John Watson into a kiss.

It wasn't really a passionate kiss. Andy wasn't planning for this to go any further. It was more a kiss of reassurance, a kiss to let John know he was a wonderful and attractive man, a kiss to let John know that he understood.

When Andy pulled back, he wasn't even sure if John had kissed him back, but he knew John had not pulled away either.

"Bloody hell. What was that, Andy?"

Andy shrugged. How could he really explain everything that had gone through his mind. Instead he said, "I just wanted you to know that you are a very kissable guy, and now you can face Sherlock with a tiny piece of experience under your belt."

John just stared at Andy incredulously. Perhaps it was not the greatest idea Andy had ever had, but he was used to doing things on impulse.

John was still staring at Andy, clearly processing what had just happened, when John's cell phone began vibrating across the coffee table top.

John picked up the phone. "Hey Greg. How are things? What? You are kidding me. No, of course you aren't. Yes, Andy's with me. We're on our way."

John hung up and took a deep breath, the kiss apparently forgotten. "The two idiots in our lives are being held by security at King's Cross Station. Greg's on his way, too. I'm almost afraid to find out what they've been up to."


	6. John

When John and Andy got to the security office at King's Cross Station, Greg was chatting with the officer at the desk. Greg turned to them upon their arrival.

"They were ready to release them when I showed up, but I thought I would let them stew for a while until you two showed up. They were fighting on the train, and a conductor and a guard had to pull them apart."

"I can let them out now, can I?" asked the desk officer. Greg nodded. "One of them has a nasty black eye that'll need some attending to, but otherwise no serious harm done."

"They're a bit old to be brawling like school boys," muttered John. He was sure Sherlock had provoked this, whatever it was.

When the two emerged from the back, they were indeed hardly the worse for wear. Except for the serious black eye that Sherlock was sporting.

"God, Sherlock," cried John. "Let me look at that."

"Stop fussing, John. It was a lucky shot." Here Sherlock paused, probably to make sure Ichabod heard. Sherlock could be such a prat. "Ichabod can barely land a blow, let alone a serious one. It was the conductor. He distracted me for a second, and one of Ichabod's mad flails actually landed."

John looked over at Andy and Ichabod, and he was surprised to see Ichabod looking a bit heated rather than reassured by Andy's attentions.

"We're blocking the doorway, gentlemen," said Greg. "Time to go."

The five of them exited the security office and took the stairs back up to the main station concourse. It looked more like a shopping mall, with glass and chrome and shops and restaurants.

"You're suspiciously silent, Sherlock," commented Greg. "Are you going to explain why Cabo blackened your eye, or is this a domestic dispute that I'm better off staying out of?"

"Ask Ichabod," said Sherlock blithely. "He's the one who attacked me. I'm not the one in the wrong here."

John seriously doubted that, but Ichabod flashed both Sherlock and Andy angry looks. When he caught John's eye, it wasn't that nice either.

"Perhaps a cuppa and something to eat?" suggested John.

"Good, reliable John," said Sherlock sarcastically. "When in doubt, throw food at it."

Ah. Sherlock was more upset than he appeared.

"I could do with something," agreed Andy, and John was grateful for someone who could pretend to act normally.

Greg steered them to Paul's, a French import that now served croissants with afternoon tea all over London. They took over a table on the side, out in the concourse, and since it was clear that Ichabod and Sherlock were not going to order, John went with Andy and Greg to the counter.

They returned with provisions in hand. John put a cup of tea in front of Sherlock, while Andy put a cup of doctored coffee in front of Ichabod along with a pastry in a bag. There continued to be a bit of tense silence until Ichabod opened the bag, pulled out a beignet, gave Andy a small smile, and began to eat.

"So what did you say?" John asked Sherlock.

"What makes you think I said anything?" Sherlock responded.

"Because you carefully stated that Ichabod attacked you, which suggests that you said something really annoying to provoke it."

Sherlock harrumphed. "At least your reasoning skills continue to improve, John."

"Well," said Greg. "I'm dying of curiosity here. Cabo is the picture of calmness itself, so it must have been something incredible."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I merely laid out the most logical path of action given the circumstances, but Ichabod's provincialism raised its illogical head."

John was feeling nervous. "Plan of action for what?"

"For taking care of you, of course. I really don't see why the concept of Ichabod having two partners should be so disturbing in this day and age."

It was like a sudden summer squall, the spitting of mouthfuls of tea and coffee in surprise, John included.

"I thought this was just about a simple kiss," said Andy to Ichabod after he had wiped the dribbled coffee off his own chin.

"It was about a bit more than just a kiss," Ichabod admitted sheepishly.

"Two partners. You were suggesting, or maybe insisting, that Ichabod take me on as a concubine?" John reminded himself that he needed to stay calm and distracted himself by wiping the tea off his shirt.

"Please, John. Ichabod would treat you equally as well as he does Andy. Of that I am sure."

"The two of you have settled all the details then," said John, definitely feeling his control begin to slip.

"Well," admitted Sherlock, gingerly touching his blackened eye, "he wasn't completely convinced. Yet."

John finished cleaning himself and turned furiously to Sherlock. "And did it occur to you that I might want to have a say in whether I was handed off to another man like a piece of chattel? Did you get a good bride price?"

"Really, John. That is not what this is about at all. I don't own you, but I know that you will always choose the noble choice, not the one that is best for you."

"So this is still a choice," John asked. "You and Ichabod haven't already signed papers of indenture and I'm to be shipped off to San Francisco to serve as his footman. Or maybe I'm to char for him and Andy. As second wife, will I have to worry about Andy eventually throwing me out? Will there be a rotation, Andy on weeknights and me on weekends? Maybe I'll just be kept naked and chained to the bedpost for whenever it's convenient!"

John belatedly realized he was nearly shouting at the end of that little speech and sat back abashed. At least it had served to shut stupid stupid Sherlock up. What the hell was the idiot thinking?

John turned to Andy and Ichabod. "I apologize for that irrational outburst. Nothing I said reflects what I really think of you two. I'm just a bit upset."

"Apology accepted," said Ichabod clearly glaring at Sherlock.

"We'd never chain you to the bed," said Andy, "unless you wanted us to."

Ichabod punched Andy in the shoulder, but John knew it was nothing since Andy was obviously stifling a laugh. It was absurd, in a very Sherlockian way. At the thought of which John looked at Sherlock, and his heart fell.

Sherlock looked genuinely miserable. He looked at John like he knew he had done something that had crossed a line.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said. "I only want what's best for you. I didn't intend to make you angry or feel that I don't think more highly of you than anyone else in my life."

John heard that last bit, and he decided he would need to parse those words in private. Instead, he said, "So explain why you think my joining my fortunes to Andy and Ichabod, lovely as they are, would be better than my staying with you?"

Greg had clearly had enough of this emotional maelstrom and excused himself from the table.

Sherlock shifted to let Greg go past. Then he looked at John, and it was if they were the only two people in the cafe, let alone the station.

"I am not, and will never be, the kind of partner you deserve. You deserve someone who makes your tea and laughs at your jokes. Someone who doesn't leave body parts in the refrigerator on your 'edible food only' shelf. Who sleeps normal hours and doesn't get so absorbed in his work that he disappears for days on end."

John sighed. "With the exception of the last one - and it's just the disappearing without word part that I would like to discuss - what makes you think those things are the most important to me?"

"Because I know you. That's why you and Andy get along so well. He shares your sense of humour, puerile as it is. And Ichabod is a kind and decent man who I could never have been the right person for, but who would be the right person for you."

John really wanted to scream some more and maybe have a good cry, but he had already done his crazy bit, and he didn't want to be the next one taken in by station security. So he took a few deep breaths and adopted a sense of calm that was totally artificial but still settled him.

"We need to talk," John said. Sherlock nodded and made as if to open his mouth. John held up his hand. "But not now. I am so angry at you that I can't think. But it's a temporary anger. It will pass. You just need to give me some space. We'll talk later. At home. Not in public just in case I need to enter my crazy space again for a while."

He looked at Sherlock, and even though he was angry, he was also so damnedly fond of this brilliant and simultaneously stupid man. Sherlock had said nothing, so John asked him, "Okay?'

Sherlock nodded.

John breathed in deeply and then turned to Andy and Ichabod, who must have been silently watching this soap opera in wonder the whole time.

"We should go find Greg. He's probably hiding in a pub with a pint, trying to regain some of his masculinity."

.....

Greg was actually just a few feet away in an alcove of sorts, talking on his phone. "Got it. The addresses just came through. And you'll let Sherlock through this time, correct? Good. I'll check in with you later."

Greg looked surprised to see all of them standing there, but he quickly rallied. However, Sherlock interjected before he could say anything, "There's been another carbon monoxide poisoning. No. There have been two."

John was not surprised at the tone of excitement in Sherlock's voice, but he could tell that Andy was.

Greg nodded. "One of the murders is out of my jurisdiction, but they're willing to let me take a look. I'll take that one, and Sherlock and John can take the other."

John really wasn't ready to deal with Sherlock yet, so even though he knew he would get Sherlock's whipped puppy dog face, he suggested, "Why don't Ichabod and I join you, Greg. Ichabod can get a good look at the scene and replay everything to Sherlock later. I can look at the body. Andy can go with Sherlock."

John was taken aback when Sherlock responded, "An excellent idea. Andy, shall we find a cab?"

Andy gave Ichabod a look of confusion, but Ichabod just threw up his hands. He then gave Andy a quick kiss, and Andy ran off to follow Sherlock.

"You aren't afraid he'll try to sell Andy to slavers just to get him out of the way?" said John in what he realized was a feeble attempt at humor.

Ichabod sighed. "Black eye notwithstanding, I know he means well in his twisted logic of how the world functions. I can't be mad at him for too long. Never could. And Andy can hold his own."

Not for the first time, John wondered what about Andy Brooks he wasn't seeing, but he had no time for further musing. They were off.


	7. Ichabod

The three of them commandeered a cab and headed east out of the city. Ichabod stared out the window, watching the passing tower blocks slowly shrink into warehouses and then housing estates, eventually surrendering to the encroachment of the suburbs with their detached cookie cutter homes, patches of garden, and general feel of discontentment that they weren't part of London proper.

He had no idea what John was feeling, but if he had learned anything from the absurd conversations of the day thus far, it was that Sherlock cared deeply for John Watson and would take things further if only he felt it was the right thing for John. It didn't matter much anymore what attracted Sherlock to John. It was enough that it was what it was. And to judge by John's reaction, John felt as strongly about Sherlock as Sherlock did about him.

He still didn't like the idea that Andy had kissed John, but Andy's explanation had eventually sunk in, even if it hadn't made a whit of difference when he first told him. Andy cared about people, and it was one of the things Ichabod loved about him. Andy kissed him because John needed it. Ichabod could deal with it, and he admitted it was kind of sweet to think of them kissing.

No. Not going there.

Back to John, who was undoubtedly still wrestling with the idiocy of the man he loved. How could Sherlock have imagined that John would understand his altruistic gesture? But then hadn't Ichabod almost made the same error with Andy? Doing what he thought was right for Andy rather than what Andy needed. He could share that with Sherlock later.

"So," said Greg. "Considering the circumstances, has either of you ever been in a three-way before?"

Ichabod was sure Greg was just trying to lighten things up, but John immediately snapped, "Never."

Ichabod hadn't either, but he couldn't help thinking of carrying on with both Albion siblings separately but simultaneously, and he hoped he wasn't blushing.

Greg was looking at Ichabod but mercifully not asking him any questions. He said more generally, "It sounds, theoretically, quite hot, but I imagine it's not two voluptuous women dying to please me but rather a complicated negotiation. It's tricky enough with just one."

John began to blush, and Ichabod wondered which two people had just entered his thoughts. Greg obviously noticed as well and said, "Aha, Mr. Watson. You are capable of impure thoughts. I won't embarrass you by asking who they involve."

John just harrumphed and returned his gaze to the window.

Greg hummed a bit tunelessly, probably considering his duties as a friend fulfilled.

Ichabod was going to reiterate that Sherlock meant well, but he realized this was not between him and John. This was for them to deal with in their own time. Instead he asked Greg, "Where are we going?"

"The lovely town of White Steps. Not far from Stratford on the Roman Road. We should be there in another ten minutes. More or less a nice white suburb. The name seems appropriate."

"Who is dead?"

"A local car dealership owner named Theodore Wandsman. Found in the dealership in his office."

"So not carbon monoxide poisoning from one of his cars then."

"It would appear not. No one else at the dealership was affected, and there's no sign of a tube connected to an exhaust pipe. One of the sales associates found him after he returned from lunch."

The cab pulled off the motorway and turned onto a busy street fronting the motorway. Not long after, they turned left into the parking lot of Wandsman Motors.

There were two police officers and a man in a suit that Ichabod assumed was the supervisor in charge. Greg went straight to him, and they exchanged a few words, Greg nodding as they talked. John was looking around the premises, essentially a small white steel and glass building next to a service area, surrounded by tarmac, part of which was parking for customers, most of which was taken by cars for sale. Ichabod didn't see anything of interest, but he assumed John would catch anything of importance.

Greg returned to them. "Looks like Mr. Wandsman died while having his lunch. At first, they thought he might have choked, but as far as they can tell, he was simply having a bowl of bouillon. My colleague gave me a call when they noticed the ruddy color of his skin. It doesn't look like any of the salesmen noticed anything amiss before he died." Greg held his hand out towards the entrance to the building. "Shall we, gentlemen?"

They passed through an open room with four desks and chairs, probably the stations for the salesmen. Wandsman's office was roomier but not very grand in comparison. There was a well used steel desk, several steel filing cabinets showing their age, and a low pressboard bookcase with an assortment of binders on the shelves. A straggly philodendron sat on top of the bookcase. There were a half dozen framed certificates on the wall, along with a wall calendar with perky underdressed women cavorting amongst nature. Ostensibly, it was a calendar to advertise car tires.

As with the other murder scene, Ichabod sensed the spell the moment he walked into the room. He closed his eyes to focus, and while this spell was not particularly strong, it eminated from the desk area. He opened his eyes to finally look at the desk and, due to proximity, the body lying on the floor beside it.

Theodore Wandsman was not an impressive specimen. He was in late middle age, overweight, and thin on top. He wore a dress shirt and tie, but even from where he was standing, Ichabod could see that the shirt was worn on the collar. John kneeled besides the body and looked up to Greg. Greg gave him a nod, and John rolled the body so that Wandsman was facing up. Bruising on the side of his face was developing from where he fell on the floor, and the healthy pinkness to the skin was unmistakable, now that Ichabod knew what to look for. Ichabod also noticed the vague stains on the tie, the worn places on the belt just under the buckle, and the shapeless cotton trousers.

He left John to the examination of the body and concentrated on the desk. Greg had moved to his side. "If I'm not off base," said Greg, "I'd say it was the bowl of broth." They both knew he was talking about the spelled item. Ichabod knew that food items were a common object for spells, but the liquids spelled were usually beverages like wine. He couldn't remember when he had ever encountered a bowl of spelled chicken soup.

"The bowl or the broth?" asked Ichabod. He leaned over Wandsman's apparent lunch and couldn't discern if it was one of the two or perhaps even both.

"I guess we'll have to bag both. A bit of a mess, but what can you do?"

Ichabod pulled out the last of his object bags. He hadn't expected to need them, but he had brought three by force of habit. He picked up the bowl of bouillon and sloshed the bowl and its contents into the plastic bag and sealed it with the sliding zip closure. Ichabod was puzzled and voiced his puzzlement aloud. "It looks like another victim of carbon monoxide poisoning, but here he's eating a spelled bowl of bouillon. Why didn't the murderer just poison the bouillon? Why kill him with one spell when another was already at hand?"

"You're assuming the killer knew about the spelled bouillon. Maybe Wandsman brought the soup to work himself." Greg had pulled a card out from the overflowing inbox. It was an invitation to the Lamberton Academy celebration.

"Another Lambertonian," murmured Ichabod. "So he must have known the bouillon was spelled. He must have brought it himself - maybe some type of health-related spell."

"There is another possibility," said Greg. "The killer could have left the bowl of bouillon for us to find."

Ichabod couldn't see the logic behind that, but before he could say so to Greg, John interrupted. "You mean this is another graduate of your Academy? Not to be superficial, but your lot are generally a lot better put together. This guy looks like he's on the far side of middle age and not doing very well. Including financially."

"Not every Lambertonian is equally successful, John," said Greg. "Some of the students have only modest spell detection powers. Some of them don't capitalize on the abilities they have. They run the gamut, just like the students from any school."

"I can see that," said John. "I guess I just assumed everyone from Lamberton was really good looking and ended up in a pretty good job."

"Here's another thing," said Ichabod, holding up a Lamberton Academy Year Book. It had been in the stack, probably just under the invitation. It was dated 1992-1993.

"He's only in his 40s?" asked John incredulously. "But you and Greg and Sherlock are way older, and this guy looks like he could almost be your father."

"Not all people who can sense spells have the gene for longevity. Most do, but there's usually at least one or two students at the academy at any given time who age just like most people." Ichabod had opened the year book and flipped to Wandsman's portrait page. While Ichabod didn't find him very good looking even in his youth, he still had the general attractiveness of youth. He was trim with a bright smile and a happy countenance and a full head of unruly waves. Ichabod felt a bit of sorrow that so much promise had ended up in such an uninspiring job and now dead.

"I can see that the murderer is killing off Lambertonians, Cabo," said Greg, "but I'm not getting why. The three we know about aren't from the same class or in the same general line of work. We'll have to look into whether or not they even knew each other, but that doesn't seem to be a connection on the surface."

"Sherlock said we would need more deaths to find the pattern," said Ichabod somberly. "I'm afraid he's correct. Hopefully he can figure out the pattern with information from this murder and the one he and Andy are looking into."

John was sifting through scraps of paper on Wandsman desk. There were "While You Were Out" messages and notes made on quarter-sheets printed with the Wandsman Motors name. John lifted up one of those sheets and looked sad. "It must be hard to be at Lamberton and be just an ordinary bloke, not having the same skills as your classmates and knowing you weren't going to live as long."

"But that's true for all of us, John," said Ichabod. "I knew I was never going to be as brilliant as Sherlock or as good at sport as Greg."

"Like I knew I would never be as tall as the cool blokes, I know," said John. "But it's not quite the same, is it?"

"Maybe not," said Ichabod.

"You, and Greg, and Sherlock - you're all involved in a world that includes spells and magic. This guy sold cars and wrote reminders to himself to call the dentist. It hardly seems fair."

"Anything else?" asked Greg.

"Why don't you pass me those messages, John. Just in case we need to know who was trying to reach him." John handed him the messages and all the scraps, and Ichabod flipped through them, registering their contents for future reference if needed.

John wiped his hands on his thighs and indicated with his eyes that he was going to go back outside. Ichabod nodded. He would give the room one more look just in case.

"What do you think of all this, Cabo?"

Ichabod looked around the office, and after the conversation with John, it appeared even sadder than before. "I'm not the expert here. What do YOU think of all this, Greg?"

"I'm thinking that the most likely suspect who would target Lambertonians is a fellow Lambertonian. I'm thinking I don't like this at all, Cabo. Not at all."

.....

John was ending a call when Greg and Ichabod joined him outside. Greg had spoken briefly with his counterpart, and he would send Greg the results from the autopsy.

"Sherlock and Andy are done in London and already heading over to Adler's," said John, "and said to meet them there. He said to make sure to bring the spelled object with you, Ichabod."

"Adler?" asked Ichabod.

"Sherlock's witch," answered Greg. "An extremely attractive woman in a very nice place in Belgravia. Not John's favorite person."

"That's not true," argued John. "She's worked with Sherlock for decades. She's fine. Just a bit too much for me sometimes."

"She flirts with Sherlock constantly, and he actually flirts back," smiled Greg. "Well, Sherlock's definition of flirting. That's what John doesn't like."

"Sherlock can flirt with whom he likes," muttered John.

"But you don't have to like it when he does," laughed Greg. When John refused to ease up, Greg patted him on the back and said, "You know with Irene it's flirting and nothing more. It's not like how he feels about you."

John sighed and walked to the waiting cab.

Greg sighed as well. "Sherlock is a good man, and John is good for Sherlock. They need to work it out."

"You have my full agreement on that point," said Ichabod.

"Hmmm," mused Greg. "Maybe taking John away for a while would bring him to his senses."

Ichabod scowled, not sure if Greg were joking or not. Greg took one look at his face and laughed some more.

.....

The cab dropped Greg off at New Scotland Yard, and Greg gave the driver a card to arrange for billing of the fare. He told the driver to take Ichabod and John on to Belgravia.

It was the evening rush by this point, so progress through the crowded city streets, only slightly alleviated by the congestion charge, was still glacial at best.

"Tell me more about Ms. Adler," said Ichabod. "It looks like it's going to be a while before we get to her place, so I might as well be prepared for the encounter."

John scowled and then sighed. "It's not that I don't like her," he began. "She's very attractive. There's no doubt about that. She's always polite to me, too. I guess I'm just jealous. She's incredibly intelligent, maybe even as intelligent as Sherlock, although in a different way. They always seem to understand each other, and the things that fascinate Sherlock fascinate Irene Adler. Things I don't even really understand. I always feel like I'm almost invisible next to her. Who would notice plain old John Watson next to the beautiful and brainy Irene Adler."

Ichabod felt a bit sorry for John, but he wasn't going to let him wallow in self-pity. Not even a little bit. "Sherlock notices you, John. He's always aware of you, always checking in. He's essentially made a declaration of love, for goodness sake. I don't think you have anything to fear from Ms. Adler."

John rolled his eyes, evidently not convinced. "Okay. Sherlock cares for me. I want him to because I really care for him. But if anything happens between us, anything more than what we already have, what's to stop Sherlock from getting bored with me? I've seen it over and over. He's obsessed with something until he figures it out. Then he's on to the next thing. I'm not naive enough to think I'm that complicated. If he hasn't figured me out, yet, he'll figure me out soon enough. What then?"

Ichabod sighed. In his opinion, John was agonizing over nothing, but he couldn't just say so. John's arguments weren't unfounded. It's just that Ichabod knew that whatever Sherlock felt for John, it wasn't because John was a puzzle. If Ichabod were to hazard a guess, he would say that what Sherlock couldn't figure out was why he was drawn to John Watson, and that was what pulled him to John. Sherlock might rationalize that it was the hidden depths of John Watson that attracted him, but as Ichabod knew from experience, attraction and love couldn't always be so rationally explained. There were so many things involved, and one spent a lifetime discovering the things about one's beloved that one loved. If Sherlock was in love with John, and Ichabod believed he was, then Sherlock would be spending a lifetime finding all of those things out, and he would be kept interested because he wanted to know what all those things were.

John looked glumly out the window, the evening lights flashing over his face as the cab struggled forward.

"There are no guarantees, John," Ichabod said finally. "But Sherlock cares for you enough that he's afraid to lose you. Enough that he has come up with ridiculous ideas for shipping you off to the states in care of a friend in order to keep you safe. I think you know what you want. You look like a man who always makes clear what he wants. You don't play around. Be clear with Sherlock."

John pursed his lips, thinking. His gaze travelled across the scene passing outside the window. "We're just about there." He turned to face Ichabod. "I'm not sure about anything right now, but I know enough to thank you. For listening, and for the encouragement."

"You'll do fine," said Ichabod, confident that John would.


	8. Sherlock

"What do you think of John?"

Andy gave Sherlock a hard look. "We are not really going into this now, are we? Don't you think the key thing is that you and John need to talk? Rather than ask me what I think of John?"

They were in a cab heading west to the neighborhood of St. John's Wood, an upscale area that was historically famous for the Abbey Road Studios of EMI, the recording label of the Beatles. Today it was mostly expensive homes on leafy streets. Sherlock realized that he was actually quite put out with everyone concerned. Ichabod of all people knew what Sherlock was like. Sherlock was selfish and irritable, impatient and often insufferable. Even he, with what Ichabod would characterize as only a modest understanding of human relationships, recognized that these were impediments to any relationship, let alone one of a more intimate nature. Therefore, he was sure Ichabod could see the logic of what Sherlock had proposed but refused to countenance the possibility due only to his misplaced sense of social propriety. Ichabod always cared too much about what other people saw in him, including his feeble academic of a father and his overbearing witch of a mother. And it was never wise to get Sherlock started on his opinions of the litany of ill-chosen lovers that had influenced Ichabod's life throughout the years.

As for John - John had his pride, and it stood in the way of what the best thing to do was. Sherlock could see how one could interpret his proposal as implying that John was just a piece of property that Sherlock could dispose of as he saw fit. Sherlock was constantly frustrated by John's obtuseness, but Sherlock never questioned how deeply John felt for him. Sherlock valued John more than he dared express. John Watson, who was loyal, faithful, patient, fiercely protective, had all the virtues that Sherlock lacked. Sherlock thanked Greg Lestrade every day (not literally, of course - Greg would just mock him as he always did) for bringing John Watson into his life, but now he was spending inordinate amounts of time questioning how he deserved a John Watson and fearing that his own defects of nature would one day end up hurting John Watson, emotionally or physically. In actuality, he conceded that he had already done a good job with the emotional hurt. Perhaps he could convince John to go with Ichabod if he finally gave himself physically to John. Sherlock had been more than willing to do so for quite a while, but he sensed that John was still battling with his middle-class need to retain a sense of heteronormativity. John could be quite provincial in spite of his many strengths. Would that convince John of his sincerity? Maybe they didn't need a talk. Maybe they just needed to have sex.

Sherlock's thinking hurtled through his mind palace, the artificial construct he had created to organize his thoughts and ideas, kicking up drafts that pulled previously well-ordered items in their wake and throwing things chaotically to the side. The fact was, he reluctantly acknowledged, he needed someone to bounce ideas off of. Normally, this would be John, but given the circumstances, John could not be relied upon to be objective. Ichabod had already demonstrated what he thought of Sherlock's proposal and would just continue in the same vein, contributing nothing to Sherlock's thinking. And Greg would just laugh at Sherlock's predicament, probably in revenge for Sherlock's lack of empathy when he was going through his divorce. They were all useless. However, there was one person who could see Sherlock more objectively and who was, when one considered it, rather John-like. Andy Brooks.

Objectively, Andy Brooks was a nice man. As Ichabod would no doubt point out, that quality alone would normally render Andy Brooks of no interest to Sherlock. He was also, objectively speaking, a good looking man, physically fit, of average but acceptable intelligence - qualities that society valued in a person but which generally mattered little to Sherlock overall. However, two things intrigued Sherlock about Andy Brooks. One, Andy Brooks appeared to be on the same wavelength as John Watson. Try as he might, there was no way that Sherlock could really understand how John thought. Sherlock was not insulting John's intelligence but merely stating the difficulty of understanding a person who was on such a different intellectual level. Sherlock also wondered, although he almost discarded the notion as soon as it came to him, if the fact that they were both men of modest height in a world that valued men of greater stature fostered some common bond. That and their appallingly low brow tastes and tendency to giggle like naughty school boys. True, John had some loathsome acquaintances that he had the occasional pint with, especially when he was mad at Sherlock for some trifling matter, but Andy, at least, appeared to have enough brain cells to rub together to generate a synapse.

The second involved Andy and Ichabod. The fact that Ichabod had become involved with someone like Andy was a conclusion so foregone as to be laughable. His aunt had died while in Ichabod's employ. They met at her funeral, Andy the grieving nephew. If Sherlock had had to create a love interest for Ichabod in a melodrama, Andy Brooks would have ticked the boxes of every requirement: lost soul torn by grief - check; shorter than Ichabod so that Ichabod could feel protective - check; a sense of humor (albeit rather puerile) - check; undoubtedly enthusiastic in bed - check; in love with Ichabod - check. No, their suitability was as clear to Sherlock as the fact that Andy and John had found his year books. What Sherlock could not figure out was what had happened to Andy and Ichabod to bring them even closer together, because something evidently had. Each of them clearly felt they owed something to the other, and there was more to their relationship, not to mention the resolution of Ichabod's three curses. Sherlock should have been able to figure out what it was, but thus far it eluded him. As it was, he was intrigued, and he desperately hoped that when he figured it out, which he would, he would not end up disappointed by the ordinariness of the explanation.

Sherlock's thought processes ran exponentially faster than most people's, so this rumination actually took less than two blocks in the cab down the Euston Road, and Andy would have noted no break in the conversational exchange.

"I'm actually asking for help in understanding John," said Sherlock. "Clearly I have offended him, and I am not so obtuse as to have no idea why, but the two of you seem quite compatible. I want to better understand John's perspective so that our conversation later will be more productive."

Sherlock was confident that this approach to the issue was sure to appeal to what he understood of Andy's personality. He was not disappointed.

"Oh," said Andy. "I thought you were asking whether I'd be okay with John joining me and Ichabod in a threesome, which is not something you should be deciding for someone else anyway, so what I think about it is really irrelevant."

Sherlock listened patiently. Andy was clearly nervous, no doubt partially because he had been thinking about John in relationship terms and had not rejected it out of hand. This was promising. If Andy was on board, Andy could be used to bring Ichabod around as well. Perhaps the key to this whole dilemma was just manipulating 'nice' Andy Brooks to solve the whole thing for him.

"But trying to understand John's perspective," continued Andy, "well, that's a good thing. I can definitely try."

"Please," said Sherlock encouragingly. It was like manipulating a child with a sweet, and Sherlock regretted for a second that he didn't have one to hold out to Andy.

"I don't know John well," said Andy, "but I think I understand him, so maybe I do understand a little bit what he's feeling. I don't want to speak for him, but maybe if I can explain how I would be feeling in his situation, you can use that when you talk with him."

"Yes, please," said Sherlock. He put on what he hoped was the face that expressed sincerity.

"It makes me think of me and Ichabod," Andy began.

"We've arrived, governor," interjected the cab driver.

Andy stopped, obviously thinking that the case should take precedence. Sherlock groaned inwardly in frustration but logic dictated that visiting the murder site took precedence. In any case, it would only take in all likelihood a few minutes, and then he foresaw plenty of time to work on Andy Brooks. Plus the bonus of teasing out more information about his relationship with Ichabod.

Sherlock had already decided to ignore Donovan as he walked into the home where the death had taken place. She called him names such as "freak" so often that it was like no longer hearing the locomotive that rumbled behind one's home every night. However, Sherlock was pulled up short when she said, "I see John came to his senses and ran off with the other one. Maybe even prettier than you, Sherlock, and definitely nicer. Never understood why John put up with you. I sure wouldn't."

Sherlock felt a sharp pain lance through his chest at her words. He was ready to retort, unsure of what he was even going to say, when he felt a firm push in the middle of his back. "I'm just filling in for the day," said Andy lightly. "Too many murders in one day and we thought why not mix it up." Before Sherlock could fully register Andy's words, they were in the foyer and Donovan was still out on the street and out of hearing.

A PC was posted at the end of the ground floor hallway, and when he saw them, he informed them that the body was in a home office on the third floor. A wife and teenaged daughter were in the kitchen behind him with a WPC should Sherlock want to speak with them. Sherlock could hear sounds of crying and attempts to comfort. They could wait.

It was most definitely a town home that spoke of a comfortable income. There were four stories, the kitchen, dining room, and reception on the ground floor. The first floor had a spacious family room at the back of the house and an office facing the street, and judging by its contents, it was used primarily by a woman, probably the wife. The second floor had three bedrooms, one of them undoubtedly the daughter's given how it was decorated. One looked to be used by a regularly visiting in-law at the other end next to a neutrally decorated room that had to be for guests. There was a two-piece bathroom in the hall, and there was undoubtedly an en suite for the daughter. The third floor had a very large bedroom at the rear with en suite, clearly the Master bedroom. The bedroom had a view over the trees of the nearby woods. At the opposite end of the hallway was the husband's home office.

A PC was standing outside the door to the office and simply nodded when Sherlock and Andy approached. Sherlock moved to enter the room when he felt Andy's hand on his arm.

"You know," Andy said, "I doubt I'll be of much use in there. If it's okay with you, I'll go back downstairs. I can talk to the family if you like."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "That would be very helpful. I usually leave the family members to the police, but if they'll talk to you, that could be even better." It was a little like having John with him. John was good at talking to people, but John also never shied from a dead body.

Andy left him, and Sherlock proceeded into the home office alone. Everyone seemed to be murdered in an office. If this death was related to the others, then the same signs would be present. The body was collapsed on the desk, the head resting on the hands as if the person were simply taking a nap. The victim was of Asian extraction, Asian like Andy - Chinese, Japanese or Korean. From appearances, he was in his forties, well groomed and in apparently good health. Sherlock knew that the healthy flush of the skin was due to the carbon monoxide, but he had good skin all the same, an expensive haircut, and an expensive pair of glasses knocked askew when his face fell on his arms.

Sherlock could sense that a spelled item was under his arms. He walked behind the body and reached under the arms to both sides. With a jerk, he was able to lift the torso and move it to the left, uncovering the objects on the desk under the body. As with all the other bodies, there were paper ephemera on the desk - notes, credit card bills, a telephone message. Sherlock lifted each piece of paper up and to the side, one by one. Strangely, if this murder were like the others, there should be a Lamberton invitation, but Ichabod did not come across one. The spelled object turned out to be a map. Sherlock slid it out. It was folded into a 15cm square. None of the other objects were triggered by being handled, so Sherlock took a chance and unfolded the map, panels opening up to each side. When fully unfolded, the map was approximately 75cm long. It was a tourist map showing the sites on either bank of the River Thames. The river had been straightened to run horizontally down the center of the length of the map. Much like the Underground map, this map ignored actual geography in favor of a design that would facilitate use.

So far they had found a pair of spelled chopsticks, spelled medication, and now a spelled map. Sherlock sensed these were clues left by the killer, but to what ends? The map suggested a location, but where, and for what? Did the chopsticks indicate a Chinese restaurant? The capsules a pharmacy? The map somewhere on the Thames?

Sherlock took out an object bag and slipped the refolded map into it. The man had to be a Lambertonian. All of these murders pointed to it. So where was the invitation? A scan of the shelves did confirm that he had studied at Lamberton Academy. He pulled out the most recent volume, dated 1937-1938, and there he was on one of the pages of graduating class portraits. Yong Kang "Edward" Xiong. The brief description under this name indicated that he was from the British territory of Hong Kong.

Thus far, Sherlock had ignored the body, registering its condition and details only peripherally. He would be remiss if he didn't at least give the body a look although he expected no clues there. And he didn't find any. If one didn't know to look for the carbon monoxide poisoning, it would have appeared Mr. Xiong died in his sleep. There were no marks on his body, just the ruddiness of his skin and the dampness down the front of his shirt.

Sherlock left the room, nodded at the PC, and headed back down the stairs. When he reached the ground floor, he could hear Andy talking with two women in the kitchen. Knowing that his presence was not always the most conducive to conversation, Sherlock waited in the reception room, noting the mixture of Chinese antiques and typical English decorative items. On a side table, there were a few framed photos. At first, Sherlock thought he was looking at a recent picture of Mr. Xiong and his wife with Mr. Xiong's mother. However, he soon realized he was seeing Mr. and Mrs. Xiong and what must be their daughter. What was evident was that neither the wife nor the daughter had the longevity gene. The wife looked to be in her late 70s and the daughter in her late 40s. In contrast, Mr. Xiong, looked to be in his 30s in the photo. Judging by the clothing and hairstyles, the photo was taken in the last five years.

And that was another thing to consider where John was concerned. John would age, and Sherlock would age much more slowly. Wouldn't it be easier for John to have at least one companion who would age with him? It would be undoubtedly hard for Ichabod to watch two partners age and die, but Ichabod was strong. It would be reassuring to know that Ichabod would be able to take care of John as he entered old age and beyond.

Andy's voice shook Sherlock out of his thoughts. It was clear from Andy's voice that he was saying farewells even though Sherlock couldn't understand the words themselves, undoubtedly Chinese, and given the harshness of the consonants, Sherlock would guess it was Cantonese or Fukienese rather than Mandarin.

He went out in the hall, and Andy nodded when he saw him. Together they exited the house, where they found the downstairs PC conversing with Donovan.

"Have it all solved then?" asked Donovan dismissively.

Sherlock cast her a dark look and then wondered why he bothered. Andy, of course, said, "I'm sure he will soon enough. Thanks."

"Where to now?" asked Andy as they walked away from the house.

"There's a cafe about two blocks away. We can talk there."

"Before I forget," said Andy reaching into his jacket pocket, "these were in the kitchen." He pulled out the invitation to the Lamberton Academy celebration.

"I knew that it had to be somewhere. I can see that it was stuck to the refrigerator, so he must have been intending to attend."

"I guess the refrigerator is a logical guess, but that's still pretty amazing," smiled Andy.

"There's a round indentation in the corner such as is typically made by a magnet. The refrigerator is the logical conclusion for a surface given the location."

"It's still amazing. Anyway, here's the other strange thing." Andy handed Sherlock a piece of paper torn off a notepad.

"It's a grocery list," said Sherlock. On the paper were typical household items, written in different colored pens as was wont to happen since items were ordinarily added at different times. Paper towels. Jam. Milk. Coffee. Bread. Bananas. Why should a grocery list be of any interest? There was really only one reason. "So neither the wife nor the daughter recognizes it, and it's not in the handwriting of the victim."

Andy smiled again. "I can't get over how you do that. But right. The list was right behind the invitation, so when I took it off the refrigerator, it fell to the ground. When I picked it up to put it back on the refrigerator, the wife asked where it had come from. Apparently, she uses a grocery app on her phone to maintain their shopping list."

Sherlock mused. "The killer must be getting tired of our bumbling around and is giving us a more explicit clue."

"But a grocery list? There's nothing unusual here at all. I buy this stuff all the time."

They had reached the cafe, and Sherlock estimated they had slightly over an hour before they should head over to Irene Adler's. Plenty of time to garner more information out of Andy.

They sat at an outside table. The cafe was all black and chrome, trying too hard to look distinct and ending up looking like nearly every other cafe attempting the same. A server approached.

"What will you have?" Sherlock asked. He remembered that people customarily asked banal questions like that of their companions at cafes.

"An Americano would be great. It looks like they have carrot cake. I'll have a slice of that to go with."

When the server asked what they wanted, Sherlock ordered for them both. "Two Americanos and a slice of the carrot cake." Sherlock refrained from telling the server that it was unhygienic not to have washed his hands after having sex in the cafe bathroom with his coworker. He might tell this to Andy later just to amuse him.

Sherlock provided Andy with a little local colour about the area of St. John's Wood while they waited for their coffees. He could do the small talk when it served a greater purpose. Fortunately, he didn't have to do it for long. There were limits.

With the coffees and cake on the table, Sherlock returned to their earlier conversation. "You said you might be able to provide me with some insights into what John is thinking. Do you think John just wants to have sex with me?"

Andy immediately put down his coffee cup, not yet having taken a sip and looked at Sherlock incredulously. "For a while, I was taken in, but I'm actually glad you're back to normal. Ichabod warned me that when you acted like a normal person that I should be very careful."

Sherlock huffed. Even when Ichabod wasn't around he was frustrating him. "I know John wants to have sex with me. I was just wondering if I did if that would make him happy."

"Do you want to have sex with him?" Andy took a sip of coffee looking at Sherlock's heretofore untouched cup. Sherlock actually had no interest in his own coffee, but it seemed the right thing to order something for himself.

"Of course I do. If you and Ichabod have dissected me as thoroughly as I am sure you have, then you know that Ichabod and I had a very satisfying physical relationship. Why wouldn't I want that with John?"

Sherlock was surprised to see Andy blush as he put a forkful of cake into this mouth.

"I have only held back thus far because I didn't think John was actually ready. However, it is clear that John has reconciled whatever internal conflicts he has had about having physical relations with me and is quite ready to proceed."

"And what do you think having sex with John is going to accomplish? I thought the two of you were going to talk, not just jump into bed."

"Actually," said Sherlock, "I wasn't necessarily going to restrict our activities to a bed, but you remind me that John is actually quite conventional in many ways. Perhaps a bed is the more appropriate place to start."

"Stop. Just stop. The sex is up to you two. I thought I was supposed to talk about how John might feel about you telling him he was better off leaving you and moving in with Ichabod and me."

Sherlock had to concede that the idea of having sex with John had distracted him from what he had originally asked Andy about. "You are correct. Please proceed."

Andy appeared to steel himself. "If I were John, this is how I would be feeling right now. I mean here in this cafe talking with you, because this is how I, Andy, feel right now. Manipulated. Condescended to. Pretty pissed off."

Sherlock was taken aback by Andy's sudden anger. "I don't understand."

Andy nodded. "Exactly. That's what I might be able to help with." Andy took a breath and then a sip of coffee. Sherlock waited, wondering what he was going to say. By the time Andy resumed, it was clear he had calmed. "Look, Sherlock. You are not the easiest person to read, and from what Ichabod has told me, you are not the most considerate person as a general rule."

"Telling me things that I have always known about myself does not seem very helpful," commented Sherlock wryly.

"Either you want to hear me out, or I can just talk about the weather and eat my cake. Your choice." As if to emphasize his point, Andy took another bite of cake and a sip of coffee.

"Fine. Continue. I'll try not to interrupt no matter how obvious your statements."

Andy finished swallowing. "Okay then. What I was trying to point out was that in spite of your personality traits, many of which would scare off a normal person, John cares about you. Probably loves you in spite of the fact that he has never seen himself as attracted to men. He loves you as you are, and he's not looking to change you."

Sherlock felt a certain warmth at Andy's words. "That's one of the most notable things about John Watson. For most of my life, everyone around me has told me that I needed to be more considerate of others' feelings, more socially adept. John accepts that about me. He may criticize me when I have apparently been even more obtuse than normal, but he has never implied that I need to change."

"Doesn't that mean something to you?"

"It means a great deal to me," said Sherlock. "What does this have to do with anything?"

"Everything," said Andy, clearly frustrated. "John's chosen you even though by every socially dictated standard he shouldn't. From what I understand, you've never followed what others have decided is socially acceptable. So why are you bowing to those standards now when it comes to John?"

Sherlock was stunned. Was that really what he was doing? Applying rules that he disdained to his relationship with John?

"If I were John," continued Andy, "I would be wondering why you felt it necessary to compromise yourself when it came to your relationship with me. If it had taken so long for me to come to terms with how I felt about you, I wouldn't want you to now become something else that wasn't true to yourself because of me."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "What you are saying, then, is that by suggesting that I am not good enough for John, that I am in fact betraying the self that John loves and thereby betraying John himself."

Andy looked a bit unsure when he said, "I think so. And don't forget that I would still be very pissed that you thought it was a good idea to foist me off on another couple, as fantastic as that couple might be. And acting as if it was a done deal. Without asking me."

"I think the three of you would be very compatible," said Sherlock, "but I can't say that I like the idea of John with the two of you and leaving me aside. Perhaps I need to rethink my conclusions."

Andy finished his cake and his coffee and then sat quietly. Apparently he had said all he was going to say. It was rare for Sherlock to find someone who actually stopped when they were done.

"I confess," said Sherlock, "that I didn't expect to learn anything about John from you. Why would I? I have known John Watson for a year, while you have known John for less than two days. But I was wrong. I apologize for my condescension. And my manipulation. Thank you."

Andy smiled. He was such an uncomplicated person. "You're welcome."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while. By Sherlock's reckoning, an hour had passed, and it was time to go. He was still curious about Andy and Ichabod, but that could wait. It was time to visit Irene Adler.


	9. Andy

Andy's first thoughts about Irene Adler were not a credit to his self-perception as a liberated and non-sexist man. But what he thought was that Irene Adler was amazingly attractive, and that if he didn't think he was almost exclusively gay, that he would definitely want to have sex with her. That's how hot she was.

She opened the door to her very elegant and clearly expensive townhouse and Andy's metaphoric jaw dropped (he had the grace to keep his mouth closed in actuality). She had luminous pale skin, dark eyes, and the reddest lips, lips that seemed to burn with intensity. Andy wasn't even attracted to women's breasts, but he found his gaze drawn to hers. She was dressed conservatively in a white blouse and a narrow black skirt, her dark hair pulled up in a chignon. She had on four-inch black pumps. And it was as if she were nearly naked and ready to tie you down to a bed and whip you and you would like it. Better yet, you would love it.

"Hello Sherlock," Irene Adler said. And then turning to Andy, "And you must be Andy Brooks. Irene Adler."

"Yes," Andy nearly stammered. "It's nice to meet you."

Irene Adler's look wasn't exactly predatory, but Andy continued to have the feeling that she could devour him if she so wished. Mercifully, all indications suggested she was not interested. She gave Sherlock a tolerant look as Sherlock breezed past her and into what Andy could only describe as the elegant drawing room beyond. There was a pillastered fireplace mantle in gleaming white with a glass vase of scarlet peonies on the mantelpiece. There was a love seat and two arm chairs, both done in a rich white wool with red piping. The room itself was a rich cream with white trim. Sherlock placed the spelled items they had collected over the last two days on the coffee table.

"A woman always appreciates a man bearing gifts," laughed Irene, seating herself on the love seat. Andy took a seat on one of the armchairs. Apparently, Sherlock was going to remain standing.

Irene picked up the items one after another, the medicine capsules, the chopsticks, the London tourist map. Andy could see that she looked a bit puzzled at first but quickly assumed the light and breezy manner that she had when greeting them at the door.

"I take it the spells themselves are inconsequential," remarked Sherlock.

"Even less than inconsequential," commented Irene. "While the items are, indeed, spelled, the spells are little more than a surface glamour. There is no trigger, and they don't do anything."

"Correction," said Sherlock. "They are sufficiently spelled to get the attention of someone who can sense spells.

Irene nodded. "Yes, there is that."

"As if the murderer wanted us to focus on these objects."

"To distract you from something more important?" asked Andy.

"I suspect not," said Sherlock. "There was nothing else at the murder scenes, but the murderer made sure we spotted these items. The question is why."

"I assume he wants you to figure it out," smiled Irene. "Have you?"

Sherlock looked rather put out. "No," he admitted. "However, Ichabod and John are on their way over with another item. Perhaps that will be enough to piece together what the message is."

"What's the object?" asked Andy.

"A bowl of chicken soup," said Sherlock.

Andy was going to ask if Sherlock was joking, but he had yet to see Sherlock make a joke and suspected he was not starting now.

"Something to drink while you wait for the others?" Irene asked. "Coffee? Tea? A cocktail?"

It was late in the day. "A gin and tonic?" asked Andy.

"But of course," smiled Irene, and Andy could feel a tingle run through his veins at having her full attention on him for just that moment.

.....

Andy could tell the moment that John walked through the door that John felt uncomfortable around Irene Adler. And not for the reason that Andy felt uncomfortable around her. Irene made Andy question whether he was as gay as he thought he was. John just looked guilty, like he was doing something wrong and felt bad about it but couldn't stop. It all made sense to Andy, however, a short time later.

Irene warmly welcomed Ichabod, and Andy noticed immediately that Ichabod noticed Irene. Well, how could he not, Andy said to himself. But then again, Ichabod didn't have to be quite so appreciative even though there was a lot to appreciate. Ichabod became more gallant and turned up the charm in Irene's presence. Irene, herself, did nothing except be herself. As a result, Andy found himself resenting Irene and then realizing she had done nothing to merit his resent. He felt guilty. And that was all it took to recognize what was going on with John. John resented Irene, too, but it wasn't Irene that was doing anything. It was the fact that Sherlock treated her as an equal. She was intelligent as well as beautiful, and Andy could see that John had a hard time next to her.

Ichabod brought over an object bag that seemed to be full of liquid. It turned out it was the chicken soup that Sherlock had mentioned earlier. Sherlock, Ichabod, and Irene leaned over the coffee table, discussing what the spelled items could mean. John stood near the large bay window overlooking the street, staying well away from the threesome. Andy walked over to the window to join him.

"She is amazingly attractive," commented Andy. "Even I can feel the pull, and I've never been sexually attracted to women before."

"Really?" asked John. Andy felt a hint of pride that he had managed at least to distract John. "You feel it, too?"

"Definitely," said Andy. "No wonder Ichabod and Sherlock are being so friendly. If she's getting to me, think of what she does to men who are sexually attracted to women."

John cast a glance at the threesome and was clearly fighting off a glare.

"I take it her spell doesn't work on you, John."

John turned his attention back from the little group. "No, it works just fine."

Andy raised his eyebrows. "I'm not picking up on the 'works just fine' part. I'm getting more of a 'she had better watch herself' vibe from you."

John sighed. "It's just totally obvious, isn't it? The woman is smart and gorgeous, and it's no wonder Sherlock, and now Ichabod, are fascinated with her. How can I measure up?"

Andy smiled. "I don't think it's a competition, John. In fact, even if it were, you've already won."

John looked a bit hopeful but then scowled. "If that's true, then why isn't Sherlock doing anything? He knows full well how I feel, probably even before I knew myself."

Here Andy had to pause, thinking about his conversation with Sherlock in the cab on the way over. "Maybe he's trying to protect you from himself. He doesn't describe himself very highly, and I get the feeling he thinks you deserve someone better."

"Yes, I know," John sighed again. "Someone like Ichabod. But with all due respect, Ichabod is not what I want."

"I get that," said Andy. "And even though Sherlock thinks that's what might be better for you, if I were him, I would be very worried about you doing what he thinks he wants you to."

"What do you mean?"

Andy shrugged. "I'm just saying, he may theoretically think it's better for you to be with me and Ichabod, but I'm not so sure he would be happy if you actually left him to be with us, especially if it turned out you liked it."

John's face lit up. Andy suddenly felt a bit nervous.

"Maybe that's what the idiot needs," said John. "Maybe he needs to see what it would really be like." Suddenly John's face fell. "Unless, of course, he's already figured all this out, and that's exactly what he thinks I would do, just to get to him. I swear, I never know if I'm actually coming up with a good idea or if I'm doing exactly what Sherlock expected me to."

Andy couldn't help but reflect on his own experience with Katrina Moloch. "I totally understand," said Andy finally. "I mean, really. Too long of a story for right now, but maybe when we've got a few hours."

John looked thoughtful. "How about tonight?"

"Huh?" asked Andy.

John looked a bit excited. "I'm thinking that you and Ichabod should have me stay with you for a night, as a trial run, just to see if we're as compatible as Sherlock thinks we would be."

"Okay," said Andy slowly.

"And I'm thinking there's no time like the present." John was clearly warming up to his idea. "That is, unless you and Ichabod don't want me there."

Andy thought about how manipulative Sherlock had been in the cab, and he suspected Ichabod would have no problems getting back at his obtuse friend. "In fact," said Andy, "I'm sure Ichabod would be totally on board with this. When those three come up for air, I'll run this by him, but I'm thinking the three of us will be having a slumber party tonight."

.....

"A pharmacy? A Chinese restaurant? A Jewish delicatessen?" Ichabod was running through ideas for what the items represented. "Somewhere close to the Thames?"

"I feel like we are close, but a piece is still missing," said Sherlock.

"It's hard to think on an empty stomach,” interrupted Irene. “I have some wine, cheese, and fruit. Would you like another G&T, Andy?"

Andy replied in the affirmative, and John volunteered to help bring things out from the kitchen. Sherlock sat absorbed by the four items on the coffee table. Andy took the opportunity to pull Ichabod aside for a word.

"God, yes," said Ichabod when Andy had shared with him John's thinking. "That might finally wake the idiot up."

John followed Irene out from the kitchen, John holding a tray with glasses, fruit, and cheese. Irene held Andy's refreshed G&T as well as a bottle of well-chilled white wine.

Andy walked over to take the G&T and a piece of cheese and indicated to John that Ichabod was fine with the plan.

"Sherlock, darling," said Irene, "could you move those things so that John has somewhere to put down the tray? And please don't spill soup on my upholstery."

Sherlock grunted, but he did as Irene asked, picking up the items and moving them to the mantlepiece. Andy watched John pour himself a glass of wine, take a healthy sip, and then walk over to Sherlock.

"You're right," said John.

Sherlock looked up at him. "I'm always right," he commented.

"Well," John continued, "you're right about this, too. I'm not too sure about how it will all work out, but Ichabod and Andy are willing to take me on for a night as a test run."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes tightly together and tilted his head. "As always, John, you are talking in riddles. What are you talking about?"

"You're probably right, that you would never be a proper boyfriend, and that I would do better with someone like Ichabod. I've spoken to Ichabod and Andy, and they've agreed to have me spend the night to see how it goes."

Andy noticed that Irene had a gleam in her eyes. It was clear she was enjoying this.

"When?" was Sherlock's one-word response.

John audibly swallowed. "Well, there's no time like the present. We were thinking tonight."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "But you don't have your shaver or your toothbrush."

"The hotel has stuff like that on hand. I'm sure they can provide John with any toiletries he needs," Andy responded.

"You don't have your pajamas," Sherlock continued.

"Perhaps he won't be needing any," said Irene just before popping a grape into her mouth.

John couldn't help the blush that overtook his face, but he nodded. "That's right. Maybe not tonight, but we'll have to see if we're compatible overall, won't we?"

"At the very least, we can talk about likes and dislikes tonight," Andy thought to add helpfully.

For a second, Sherlock looked slightly murderous, but in a blink of an eye, he completely changed demeanor. "Of course, John. That is an uncharacteristically sensible idea of yours. I totally support your thought, and I'm sure the three of you will have a lovely evening together. Shall we get together at breakfast to compare notes?"

Andy looked at Ichabod, feeling slightly confused at Sherlock's sudden shift in tone. Ichabod was glaring at Sherlock, but he turned his attention to Irene. "It has been a pleasure to meet you, Irene, but given how important this evening is, especially as it concerns John's possible future, I think we should take our leave. I look forward to meeting you again." Ichabod turned to no one in particular and said, "I'll go out and hail a cab."

"Yes," added Andy to Irene. "It's been a pleasure. And thank you for the drinks."

"The pleasure has been mine," Irene answered.

Andy couldn't help but notice that Sherlock looked somewhat smug.

"Well, Irene," said Sherlock. "Since it looks like the others are abandoning us for the evening, might I interest you in dinner?"

"That would be delightful," responded Irene. "Let me get my coat and bag."

John was facing away from Sherlock, but Andy could clearly see that he was less than pleased. "Let's leave, shall we?" John muttered through clenched teeth.

Andy thought it wise to get out before anything further could be said, and he followed Ichabod and John out the door.


	10. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second half of the chapter justifies the explicit rating.

To say that it was awkward in the cab back to Ichabod and Andy's hotel was, in John's mind, an understatement. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, but as with almost everything that had to do with Sherlock, John's spur-of-the-moment inspirations often ended up being less than optimal. This was only reinforced by Sherlock's nonchalance when John announced he was spending the night with Ichabod and Andy, not to mention Sherlock's overt invitation to Irene Adler for dinner.

It shouldn't have been awkward. John got along perfectly well with both Andy and Ichabod, and they were happy to help John as far as motivating Sherlock was concerned. He looked forward to getting to know both of them better over a meal and drinks. And then he was going to spend the night in their room, where he expected nothing was going to happen any different than when he ended up sharing a room with a friend while on holiday. But he was nervous all the same. Perhaps because he wondered if something would happen. But that was really up to him, wasn't it? Neither Andy nor Ichabod had given any signal that they were doing anything other than try to rile Sherlock up. So maybe it was only awkward for John because John was the one with awkward thoughts in his head about what might or might not happen, and he didn't even know if what he might want to happen was something that they might want to happen, and, oh god, John was feeling more and more awkward every second.

"Are you okay, John?" asked Ichabod.

And of course his awkwardness was showing, dammit. "I'm fine," smiled John, hoping it was convincing. "I'm just thinking that Sherlock wasn't fooled for a second."

"He did look rather smug," agreed Ichabod.

"He didn't have to be so obvious about inviting Irene out to dinner," added Andy.

"You noticed that, too?" asked John.

"Please," said Andy. "He was being a total jerk about it."

John felt a little better, knowing that Andy and Ichabod were on his side. "So maybe this whole slumber party thing isn't really going to work."

"What does it matter?" said Ichabod. "We can still have a very pleasant dinner and tell our most outrageous Sherlock stories, and if Sherlock is not fooled, you're no worse off than you were before we decided to go off together for the rest of the evening."

John thought about that for a second and had to agree. "No, you're right. It was probably pretty foolish thinking I could pull one over on Sherlock, but as you say, it's not a night wasted. Not at all."

The cab pulled into the forecourt of the Paddington Hilton, and Ichabod insisted on paying the fare. "After all," he said with a leer, "we plan to have our way with you later."

John had to laugh at that.

"What do you feel like having for dinner?" asked Andy. "We've been to an Italian restaurant a block away and an Indian place even closer than that."

John did a scan of what he could see of the immediate area. There was no way he was having them eat at either of the steak house chains that he could see with bordello-like interiors and filled with tourists. They could always go to Angelo's - Baker Street was only a short cab ride away - but the point of this evening was to get away from Sherlock, and that was at the doorstep to their flat. "Let's go to the Italian place."

"Great," said Andy. "I was in the mood for pizza."

The restaurant was indeed but a short block away. It was a part of a chain, as well, but he had eaten there before and the food was fine and the restaurant was spacious and open. He wasn't sure he was up for something cozy and intimate.

A perky server sat them at a table in the middle of the large room. The open kitchen occupied one long wall, and the room was brightly lit with white stucco walls, accented with large plastic flower-like shapes in bright hues such as chartreuse and orange. The restaurant was quite busy, and there were groups at most of the tables around them, and John felt more relaxed being in the midst of a crowd.

John and Andy ordered Peronis and Ichabod a glass of some Italian white wine. They ordered a large antipasto platter as a starter for the table.

They talked about the odd assortment of spelled objects, and John inquired as to what it was like living and working in San Francisco. Ichabod said that most of his life as a retriever of spelled objects was quite dull, but San Francisco was quite a wonderful city to be in all the same. Andy argued that object retrieval wasn't always dull and proceeded to recount a story about the time the two of them had to dance their way into retrieving an object, the object itself casting a dancing spell on anyone in the immediate vicinity. Ichabod followed up with a story about Andy's first retrieval, a spelled object with a Sleeping Beauty spell that Andy had to retrieve before succumbing himself.

The starter arrived, and over the marinated vegetables and cured meats, John told them about working with Sherlock. Even though he was irritated with the man, John couldn't help but be enthusiastic about Sherlock's deductive abilities, and he took great relish in recounting one of their more recent cases involving an ingenious blackmailer.

The server returned to take their main orders, and John ended up ordering a Pizza Quattro Stagioni and a salad, much like Andy's order. Ichabod ordered a chicken dish with a side of pasta.

They were part way through their mains when John realized that he was feeling quite relaxed and wondered what he had been feeling awkward about. Andy and Ichabod were both very easy to talk to, and in a way, especially given Ichabod's long history with Sherlock, John felt like he had known them far longer than the few days they had spent together.

Not surprisingly, the conversation did move to the topic of Sherlock's ridiculous proposal.

"Sherlock has never been the most astute when it came to decisions that were grounded more in emotion than in logic," said Ichabod.

"He would argue that logical decisions ended up being the right decisions when emotions were concerned," responded John.

"However," argued Ichabod, "the right decision may not always be the most appropriate decision in a given situation."

John finished off a last crust. "The most frustrating thing about Sherlock is that I never know whether I'm actually making my own decisions. He can read people so well that I'm always thinking he already knows how I'm going to act and has planned accordingly. Like tonight. I get the feeling he knew I was going to suggest spending the evening with you, and he knew full well it was just calling his bluff, and instead he called mine."

"Sherlock," said Ichabod, "is not omniscient. He just wants you to think he is."

They decided to forego dessert and pick up a bottle of wine at the off license to drink in the room. John noticed that Andy had been a bit silent during the last part of the meal, but he wasn't sure whether he was entitled to say anything. After all, Ichabod was there, and if something were wrong, Ichabod would take care of Andy.

John's earlier sense of awkwardness returned in full force when they entered the hotel room. John belatedly realized that there was no reason there should be two beds in the room, but it was still a shock to see the one king-sized bed. There wasn't even a couch, just a set of arm chairs. Well, it wouldn't be the first time he had slept on a floor, and at least this one was plushly carpeted.

"Wine, John?" Ichabod asked, brandishing a corkscrew.

"Yes, please." John definitely needed a bit more alcohol to combat his sudden crisis of nerves.

Ichabod handed Andy a glass of wine, and Andy climbed onto the bed and sat up against the headboard. Ichabod handed John a glass before taking his own, and to John's surprise, Ichabod climbed on the bed as well. John was all set to sit down in one of the armchairs, but he had expected one of them to sit in an armchair, too. What was the etiquette here? He was going to spend the night with two men, both of whom were now sitting on the very expansive bed. If he sat in an armchair, was he being rude? A prude?

Before John could do any more self-analysis, Andy patted the space on the bed between him and Ichabod. "Get up here, John. At the very least, you'll be able to look Sherlock in the face and say that we spent a very nice time in bed together."

John had to laugh at that, and toeing off his shoes, he carefully climbed on the bed while making sure not to spill the wine in his glass.

It was actually quite comfortable sitting between Ichabod and Andy on the admittedly luxurious bed. It felt a little bit like having a beer or a smoke with mates sitting on a window ledge or the edge of a rooftop. Each of them took a sip of wine, and it was a not unpleasant quiet moment.

"I told you," said Andy in the middle of the quiet, "that I understood how it's like to wonder if you have any free choice at all. It's not exactly like how it is with you and Sherlock, but I think I know how it feels."

John realized that the fact that they were all looking forward, rather than at each other, was what made him think of drinking on a ledge. It made it easier to talk about hard things, personal things. The tone in Andy's voice suggested this was a very personal, and perhaps difficult as well, thing.

At first, John really didn't understand Andy's story. He was confused by the timing of things and the changing names. How could Andy's mother be a witch that Ichabod had pissed off before Andy was born? What did he mean his mother had carefully planned his aunt's death in order to set Andy up with Ichabod? How exactly was Ichabod's mother involved in all of this? And how many emerald necklaces were there?

John felt Ichabod's arm reach behind him to put a reassuring hand on Andy's shoulder, and it seemed the right thing to do to put his arm around Andy as well and pull him close, allowing Andy to kind of nestle against his shoulder. Ichabod poured them each another glass, emptying the bottle, and Andy continued his story.

While John didn't have a complete grasp of the details, he did grasp the point of Andy's story. Because of Katrina Moloch, Andy's whole life had been planned in advance. What could it be like to know that someone had raised and molded you to meet someone, love them, and then destroy them? This was nothing like what John felt like with Sherlock. It was infinitely worse, but Andy was telling John that he and Ichabod had made it through. That no matter how much of Andy's life, and Ichabod's for that matter, had been manipulated and planned, the fact remained that they fell in love and found a way to control their own destinies. And so could John.

The next part of Andy's story was rather surreal, and John had a hard time with the idea that almost all of it was taking place in some layer of Andy's subconscious. Wherever it took place, it was real to Andy and Ichabod, and at one point, Ichabod leaned over John's shoulder to kiss Andy's cheek.

"So you really died?" asked John quietly. It seemed appropriate to lower his voice.

"I must have," said Andy. "Otherwise, I think Katrina and the others would still be with me."

John was stunned. "And this shadow, can you still do that?"

John would have jumped if he hadn't been caught between Ichabod and Andy. Without warning, there was suddenly another Andy, albeit a somewhat blurry one, standing by the side of the bed. "Bloody hell!" was what John came out with. At first, John was mesmerized by the sight of this other version of Andy, but since the shadow didn't move, he grew conscious of other things. Most particularly, he became conscious of the fact that he was nestled quite snugly against Ichabod's shoulder, and Andy was more or less nestled quite snugly against his. Both Ichabod and John had one arm around Andy's shoulder, and Ichabod and Andy each had a hand resting on John's thigh, Ichabod's on top of Andy's.

John watched as the shadow seemed to soundlessly dissolve back into Andy's feet.

The room had become very silent, and John was very much aware of Ichabod's breath against his neck and the warmth of Andy's back. John realized that what he felt wasn't awkwardness. There was nothing awkward about being warm and held, about how close he felt to Andy and Ichabod, knowing he was one of the few people who knew what had happened, knowing that even Sherlock didn't know. It was, rather, a trembling in his limbs about what might happen, if he wanted it to happen.

John had to confess to himself that it was no longer about whether he could be attracted to men, to Sherlock in particular. And he didn't feel like any decision he made in this moment was being unfaithful to Sherlock and whatever existed between them. It was, he realized, about the two men that he was sharing a bed with and the fact that, yes, he would like to do more in bed than just talk and drink wine.

"Are you sure?" asked Ichabod. For a second, John wondered if he had been thinking out loud. Then he realized that he had placed his hand over Ichabod's and was twining his fingers in between Ichabod's and even down in between Andy's. John could stop everything now, but he could admit that he didn't want to stop. Instead, he nodded.

He felt Ichabod's lips gently kiss the top of his ear, and it was like a jolt of electricity running through his body. The next thing he knew, Andy had turned around, his body still firmly pressed against his, only now Andy was looking at him, bright brown eyes and a small smile. Andy leaned forward and, for the second time, kissed John, and this time, John didn't hold back. He allowed the kiss and allowed himself to move into the kiss, lips sliding together, parting, and tongues swiping against each other. He had his arms around Andy, pulling him in tight, and he felt Ichabod's lips working his way down the back of his ear, kissing his ear lobe and then down the side of his neck. Andy pulled away from their kiss, and John felt rather than saw Ichabod lean forward to kiss Andy, the two of them sandwiching John firmly between them, Andy's hips grinding against John's, John growing hard.

They slumped down the bed, and Andy kissed his way down John's chin, working into the hollow of his neck. John felt Ichabod place kisses against the back of his neck, and he shivered. There were hands everywhere on him, deft fingers working to unbutton his shirt, firm hands running along his sides and down his thighs. Andy stayed pressed close, and John could feel that Andy was hard as well. Now John's chest was mostly bared, and fingers played across the skin of his clavicle even as lips grazed his nipples before sucking down hard, causing John to jerk in response. John felt a moment of nervousness as Ichabod slid his shirt off his shoulders. The healed flesh of the bullet wound was tortured and twisted, and John admitted to feeling self-conscious. He felt Ichabod leave a kiss where the bullet had entered, and Andy leaned in to kiss the ropy scars where the bullet had torn his shoulder apart when it exited.

Andy lifted off of John, and John watched as Andy undressed, forgetting his wound. Andy smiled at him, seemingly pleased at John's attention, and uninhibitedly removed his shirt, baring a smooth expanse of skin and large dark nipples. Andy undid his belt, and he kept his eyes on John as he unfastened his trousers. With a single movement, Andy slid both his trousers and his pants down his leg, lifting each leg in turn to free himself. Andy stood there for a moment, and John wasn't quite sure how to assess Andy's very naked body. He definitely couldn't help noticing the dark erect cock and the wild tangle of dark pubic hair. But it was just a moment, and then Andy was back on the bed, arms spread across John's chest, and his lips pressed against his.

John's hands roamed down the firmness of Andy's back and over the swell of his buttocks. John couldn't help but think how smooth Andy's skin was, not unlike the many women John had had sex with. But Andy wasn't a woman, and John felt along his muscular thighs and up and over his ribs, squeezing Andy's biceps and forearms. He could also feel Andy's hard length pressed along his groin.

Andy lifted off of John again, and Ichabod's hands joined Andy's in unfastening his belt and then the button of his trousers. John felt a moment of shyness. Andy was lean and taut, and John was all too aware that his body was a bit soft around the middle. But soon, Ichabod was sliding down his zip and Andy was kissing his way down John's abdomen, and John simply lost all coherent thought, consumed in the sensation of hands and tongues and lips on his body.

John's trousers slid down his legs, and Andy's mouth wrapped around his hard cock. John was sure he moaned. John lost himself in Andy's moist warmth and Ichabod's lips against the nape of his neck and Ichabod's warm hands stroking across his chest, his abdomen, his nipples. Andy released John's cock and started sucking on John's testicles. This was a new sensation for John. No one had ever focused on his balls before, and he shuddered as tingles rose from his balls under Andy's ministrations. Ichabod's hand wrapped firmly around John's cock and began to stroke up and down his length, Andy's saliva providing just enough lubrication.

John could feel his balls tighten, and Andy responded by sucking his balls even more firmly into his mouth. John let out an open-mouth moan. His balls were straining to pull up and allow John to find release, but Andy kept them taut and extended. All the while, Ichabod continued to stroke him, firmly and wetly, up and down, a steady rhythm that brought John closer and closer to orgasm. Andy let John's balls free, and that was all it took. John's body shook, and his cock went rigid in Ichabod's fist as he spasmed over and over again, and warm come splashed up on his stomach.

John lay there, depleted, unable to move. Ichabod kept his hand around John's softening cock and nuzzled against John's neck and hair. Andy kissed his way up John's side, trailing his fingers over John's stomach, probably through the splashes of come. When John had finally regained full coherence, Andy had his hand behind John's head, holding him as he kissed his eyes, his nose, his lips.

"Are you okay?" asked Ichabod softly in John's ear.

John managed to nod.

"Just lay back and relax."

Ichabod rose from the bed, and John thought to open his eyes when he heard Ichabod undress, but he didn't have the energy yet. He felt Ichabod's weight on the bed and then Ichabod falling onto Andy. John was sure Ichabod moaned, but he was restrained compared to the sounds coming out of Andy. John opened his eyes then, and watched as Ichabod worked his way down Andy's body with his mouth and tongue. It was mesmerizing to watch Andy respond, his back arching as Ichabod took Andy's cock into his mouth, his whole body jerking, his hands grasping Ichabod's shoulders and hair. And then Ichabod put his hands behind Andy's thighs and pushed until Andy's legs rested against his chest, and Ichabod tongued against what John had to assume was Andy's anus. To judge by the increase in Andy's volume, this must feel good. Ichabod darted his tongue in and out and then laved Andy with broad sweeps of his tongue, and Andy's breathing grew faster and more ragged.

"Please, Ichabod, fuck me," pleaded Andy, and Ichabod pulled away, moving forward on his knees. John couldn't help but notice Ichabod's hard cock, red and dripping precome, and seemingly enormously large. Granted, John had seen few erect cocks before, but it looked huge. Ichabod reached to the bedside stand and pulled out a small bottle. He flipped it open with a finger and squeezed a good amount of clear gel onto Andy's opening. He tossed the bottle to the side and then began to work the gel into Andy with a finger. If anything, Andy seemed to be getting more aroused and thrust his ass onto Ichabod's finger. Then it was two fingers and then three, and Andy was whimpering and begging.

Ichabod took his lube-slick hand and stroked his cock, making it glisten. He leaned forward, directing his cock towards Andy's hole, and then he pushed in.

John couldn't help it. He hadn't had sex twice in an hour in years, but his cock was hardening again, and he found himself stroking himself as he watched Ichabod sink into Andy. He imagined what it must feel like, to sink into another man's body, and he wondered whether he would like having another man enter him. Clearly Andy did. Andy was soon jerking his hips, forcing Ichabod fully into him. Ichabod began to thrust harder and settled into a rhythm that forced a gasp out of Andy with each stroke.

Suddenly, Andy turned his head and he was looking at John. It was too much, and John leaned forward to kiss Andy, and the kiss turned wet and deep, and John found himself up against Andy's side, his now fully hard cock against his hip. John reached under Andy's bent leg, and for the first time in his life, he took a man's cock into his hand. Andy's cock was hot and wet, and John could feel it throb in his grasp, twitching with each thrust of Ichabod's hips. He began to stroke Andy, first tentatively, but with Andy moaning into his mouth, he grew bolder and firmer. Andy let go of the kiss with a loud cry, and John felt Andy's cock pulse, splashing warm come on John's fingers.

He heard Ichabod cry out, and he looked down to see Ichabod fully embedded in Andy, shuddering and moaning, releasing himself inside Andy.

John leaned away and onto his back, and his fist began to pump his cock. He was settling into a rhythm, when he felt Ichabod's hand stop him. John opened his eyes, and Ichabod was leaning over him, tearing open a condom packet.

"Andy's relaxed and lubricated and nicely stretched out. You can't hurt him." Ichabod held the tip of the condom and rolled it down John's cock. John found himself rolling over and then kneeling between Andy's legs, and then he was sinking his cock into Andy's hole. It was warm and slick and tight, and soon John was thrusting, aching after each stroke, his cock seeking just a little more friction, another rub of hardness just there. He was all sensation, his eyes closed, all of his senses focused on his cock. And then the darkness behind his eyes exploded, and he came with a muffled shout, his hips bucking of their own accord as he rode wave after wave of orgasm.

He collapsed on Andy, who held him and stroked his hair, and then he felt Ichabod nestle against his side, holding both of them in his broad embrace.

.....

They had eventually gotten out of bed and cleaned up in the bathroom. Ichabod called down for a spare toothbrush. Finally, the three of them were naked in bed, John curled up with his head on Andy's chest and Ichabod curled against his back.

"Are you okay?" asked Ichabod.

John smiled. They kept asking him that, but there wasn't anything to worry about. He was fine. "I'm good," he said. "It was good. More than good. It was great."

"We aim to please," said Andy.

John thought about how he had approached this evening, and he was surprised at where he had ended up. And thinking of surprises, he said aloud, "I wonder if Sherlock was expecting this."

All three of them ended up laughing at the thought before gradually drifting off to an exhausted sleep.


	11. Ichabod

Instead of a moment of awkwardness when they woke together in the bed, there was a shared groan when the hotel room phone went off. Ichabod was nearest, so he rolled over and picked up the receiver.

"There's been another murder. I'm going to go down and hail a cab, and I'll have it swing by the hotel to pick you up."

"Good morning to you, too," mumbled Ichabod, realizing that Sherlock had already hung up before he even finished the salutation.

Ichabod rolled back over. Sometime in the night, John and Andy had exchanged places, and Andy was now in the middle, John snuggled in tight on his other side. Ichabod wrapped an arm around Andy and John and gave Andy a kiss on the cheek.

"I assume that was Sherlock," grumbled John. "No one else calls this early or hangs up so quickly."

"I'm afraid it was," said Ichabod before giving John a quick kiss on the cheek as well. "There's been another murder, and he's on his way to find a cab and then pick us up. I give us ten minutes before he arrives."

John let out a sigh, but probably only from force of habit. He immediately rolled out of bed and headed to the toilet. "Oh," he said and stopped. He turned and looked at both of them. "I guess we'll have to share, but before anything else, I just wanted to say thank you."

Ichabod smiled at him and was unable to avoid giving John's body the once over. John clearly noticed and he flushed red. "I think the thanks are mutual," said Ichabod.

"Ditto," said Andy from the bed, head still buried in the pillow.

John took a deep breath. "Well, enough of that. The crazy wanker will be here in minutes, and I want to at least brush my teeth before I have to face him."

.....

The three of them were standing on the steps of the hotel drive when the cab containing Sherlock Holmes pulled up twelve minutes later. Sherlock rolled down the window and cried to them, "Good morning, gentlemen. I trust you had a pleasant evening. Sorry we can't stop for breakfast."

The smugness with which Sherlock extended the greeting was all too apparent to Ichabod. It was, therefore, all the more satisfying when the smugness fell away once they were all seated in the cab and they were back out on the Marylebone Road.

"It was a bit unexpected," said Ichabod, "but it turned out to be quite pleasant for all concerned."

Sherlock seemed about to make a comment but quickly shut his lips tight. He was seated across from all three of them and looked from Ichabod to Andy to John and then back to Ichabod. Finally, Sherlock said, "But you were just planning to talk."

"Perhaps," said Ichabod. "However, the circumstances led us in other directions. I actually assumed that was what you wanted all along."

"I did not," said Sherlock emphatically.

"In fact, Sherlock," said John, "I think this is very much what you told me you wanted for me."

"Perhaps long term," said Sherlock, "but not right now."

"My apologies," said John. "I must have completely misunderstood you when you said that I should go to America and live with Ichabod and Andy because YOU thought it would be better for me. I think we can consider last night a test drive."

"And did you enjoy the ride?" asked Ichabod.

"I found the handling very responsive overall," said John.

Ichabod was quite pleased to see Sherlock's face had acquired the shade of a damson plum. "That is NOT what I wanted," hissed Sherlock through gritted teeth.

John leaned over and put his face before Sherlock's. "Then what, please tell me, did you want?"

"I," began Sherlock haltingly, "I wanted..." He faltered. "I wanted to make sure you were happy and safe."

"Which I guess I could be with Ichabod and Andy," said John, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's.

"But..." said Sherlock with what Ichabod could only label as sadness.

"But," repeated John.

Sherlock just looked at John, and he looked rather devastated.

"But," said John again, "it's not so easy thinking of me happy with someone else, is it?"

Sherlock uttered a very faint, "No."

Ichabod decided they needed a private moment, even though the four of them were in rather close quarters, and he turned to Andy. Andy said nothing, but his eyes were bright, and Ichabod felt Andy take his hand and squeeze it. Ichabod squeezed back, and the two of them looked out the cab window and remained silent.

"Stop looking so morose, you wanker," said John affectionately. "This is all your fault. You spent most of the last two days shoving me at Ichabod and Andy, and you were successful. Shouldn't you feel happy you got your way?"

"But you weren't supposed to..." Ichabod had never heard Sherlock leave so many sentences incomplete before.

"We were just supposed to talk, were we?" John's voice was teasing. "Well," he conceded, "that's all I really thought would happen when we left you. I was going to have a nice dinner with them and then I would sleep in one bed, and they would sleep in the other, and we'd take turns in the bathroom and that would be that."

"Evidently, plans changed," said Sherlock, still very softly. Finally, a full sentence.

"I'm not trying to hide anything Sherlock," said John. "You can undoubtedly read everything that happened. I hadn't planned any of it, but I'm not sorry it happened."

Ichabod just stared out the window as the silence following John's statement dragged out.

"You are such an idiot," said John finally. "I don't have your observational skills, but I can still figure out what's going on in that head of yours. And with apologies to Ichabod and Andy, who were wonderful hosts for the evening, I would still have been happier spending the evening with you, with or without the sex."

"That's not logical, John."

"Feelings aren't always logical, Sherlock."

"I can tell that you had a very satisfactory evening with Andy and Ichabod, including two orgasms on your part, John, and that you all ended up sharing the single bed in the room and slept very well. You have never slept the night with me nor have I ever brought you to orgasm. Still, you would stay with me?"

"As you said, Sherlock, my answer isn't logical. It's simply yes."

There was another period of silence, and then Andy was whispering into Ichabod's ear, "They kissed. I had to look."

Ichabod smiled and gave Andy a kiss, too. After all, one good kiss deserved another.

.....

Greg was waiting for them. They had traveled south over the Thames, and Ichabod could see the concrete tower over Elephant and Castle a few blocks over. Greg was standing in front of a decidedly ugly concrete, wood, and glass apartment block, an unfortunate accretion in London after the destruction in the war. "This is number five, Sherlock. You can usually ascertain a pattern well before this. And if it's another Lambertonian, it would be good for you to figure this out before we end up celebrating alone at the Academy next week."

"For all we know," Ichabod added, "the killer may target one of us next."

Sherlock swept past Greg, and Greg called out, "Fifth floor flat. 5E."

"I know," said Sherlock from inside the building.

The lift was far too small to accommodate all five of them, so Ichabod and Andy ended up on the second trip, and by the time they arrived at 5E, the others were already inside.

John and Greg were in the living room of the apartment, and Ichabod assumed Sherlock was wherever the body was. Greg was talking, and John was taking notes.

"From what we can tell, the victim is Temperance Shipley, Lamberton Academy class of 1989. It appears she worked at Canary Wharf for an international logistics firm, Towman, Donaldson, and Opperton, known more commonly as TDO. A neighbor called when he hadn't seen her in over a day and when she didn't come to the door when he rang. The M.O. is identical. The M.E. agrees that she died from asphyxiation due to carbon monoxide poisoning, and there was a spelled item on her desk, in this case part of a jar of gherkins."

"Gherkins?" John asked.

"That's what we found," confirmed Greg. "Let's hope Sherlock figures out how this fits together with the others."

"This murder," said Sherlock walking back into the living room, "is completely different."

"What?" asked Greg, turning around sharply. "Same cause of death. A spelled item by the body. A graduate of Lamberton Academy."

"Not the same at all," said Sherlock. "True enough, the victim died from carbon monoxide poisoning, but I'm sure you will find on closer examination that she did not die in that chair in that room. There are marks of lividity that indicate that the body was lying prone when the victim suffocated. There are also bruises on the backs of the calves that suggest that she was roughly handled after death, probably when she was put into the boot of a car to transport."

"Wait," said Greg, lifting his hand to stop Sherlock's flow of explanation. "Why would the murderer need to transport her in the boot of a car?"

"You would know, if you had been listening, Lestrade, that she was not killed here."

"But you said she also died of carbon monoxide poisoning, like the others. Why would the killer change his M.O. for this victim?"

"Because I don't believe this is Temperance Shipley," said Sherlock. "You can confirm that when you have the body ID'd."

"Which we will do," said Greg, "as a matter of course. So why go to the trouble of making us think the victim is Temperance Shipley when it isn't? And where is Temperance Shipley?"

"She is obviously out of the country, probably on a business-related trip. Ms. Shipley is an organized woman, and the empty space in her hall closet is the size of a carry-aboard suitcase. The pieces of clothing missing from her closet, again thanks to her sense of organization, are all business wear - blouses, a suit, an extra skirt, and a pair of slacks. Judging from the clothing missing from her bedroom drawers and the dirty items in her laundry hamper, she is to be gone for nine or ten days. She left two days ago to judge by the newspaper on the top of her stack of recycling. A simple call to TDO will confirm all this."

"But then," said Greg, "what about the neighbour that called?"

"Clearly a bogus call," said Sherlock, "and perhaps the murderer himself. He wanted this woman's body to be found and soon, which suggests a timeline, so he made up the neighbour story. Again, a check of residents of the building will prove that no one called to report her absence."

Ichabod noticed that Andy was wide-eyed with amazement, and Ichabod had to admit that Sherlock was even sharper than normal. He noticed that John was just taking it all in stride and smiling.

"Unlike the other victims, the odor on her clothing suggests she was actually in a room filled with carbon monoxide. The room is located either in Southwark or Vauxhall." Apparently no one needed to ask Sherlock how he knew. Undoubtedly there were unique particles on her shoes or some such clue.

"Why didn't the killer just use the spell he used for the other victims?" asked Greg.

"Because she was a witch," said Sherlock calmly. "She would have sensed a spelled object if he had tried to use one, so he had to do it the old fashioned way and tamper with a gas line. I am surprised she didn't detect the odorant that the gas company is required to add to carbon monoxide, but I imagine that's because she was hard at work at a complicated spell."

"And why did he kill her?" asked Greg.

"It's so obvious, Lestrade. I'm sure even John has it figured out by now." Sherlock turned and looked at John encouragingly.

"Actually, I think I have," said John eagerly. "This is the witch the killer hired to create the spelled objects which killed the other victims. With her work done, the killer had to get rid of her."

"Very good, John. It's good to know something has rubbed off on you."

Ichabod couldn't help but notice John blush. It really was a disadvantage to be a fair-skinned blond.

"However," continued Sherlock, "I'm still not sure why he moved the body. I need to think. John and I will be at Baker Street when you need us. Ichabod, take a look around the room, especially at the items on the desk. However, I suspect none of it is relevant. Come, John."

With a flourish of his overcoat, Sherlock left with John in his wake.

"That was kind of incredible," said Andy after they had left.

"That was an unusually bravura performance," remarked Greg. "Did something happen to Sherlock before you got here?"

Ichabod thought about the trip over in the cab and then he caught Andy's knowing eye. "Actually, Greg, I think you're on to something."

.....

Since they had rushed out of the hotel that morning, Ichabod suggested that he and Andy have a late breakfast before heading over to Baker Street. Their visit to London wasn't turning out to be anything like what he had planned, and it was nice to have a little time with just the two of them. It wasn't clear to him what they could add to Sherlock's thinking anyway, and he agreed with Andy that perhaps Sherlock and John might want a little time alone to continue their moments from the cab.

They bid farewell to Greg, who now had the unenviable job of following up on everything Sherlock had said, and ended up taking the Underground from Elephant and Castle all the way to the Baker Street Station. Not far from the exit and en route to the flat on Baker Street, there was a Pret a Manger sandwich shop, and they had breakfast sandwiches and coffee. It still seemed too soon to head over to Baker Street, and Sherlock was sure to have phoned if he needed them, so they wandered down a street that led to one of those lovely gated parks that dotted London, and he and Andy sat in the leafy shade of a tall tree to just take in the atmosphere.

"It makes me think of the parks in Mary Poppins," said Andy. "I expect her to show up with the two kids in tow, and Bert, of course."

"I like the part where all the nannies blow away," said Ichabod, wrapping an arm around his partner's shoulder. Andy leaned in.

"This isn't too much PDA for the citizens of London, is it?" asked Andy.

"We could get married here now if we wanted to," said Ichabod.

"We can get married in San Francisco if we wanted to," answered Andy. After a moment, he said, "I liked our threesome with John. He's a really nice guy. You don't think he's too freaked out, do you?"

Ichabod chuckled. "He's been with Sherlock for over a year. I doubt there's very much that freaks out John. I think he was lovely."

"Do you think they're working things out?"

"If you mean by 'working things out' that they're snogging, my guess would be probably."

"Then let's just sit and enjoy the day for a while longer before we interrupt them."

Ichabod hummed contentedly and agreed it was a good thing to do.

.....

John had served Ichabod and Andy tea, and the three of them were sitting at the kitchen table. Sherlock was standing by one of the windows facing the street and thinking.

"We did do a good amount of kissing when we first got back," said John ruefully, "but then Sherlock's brain started firing, and he left me to stand by the window and think, and he's been there more or less ever since."

"We would have come over sooner if we had known the kissing had already stopped," remarked Andy.

"You couldn't have known," sighed John.

"So what has he come up with?" asked Ichabod.

"Whatever it is, he hasn't shared it with me yet," said John. "When the kissing stopped, I just went to my room to collect myself. I only came out when you rang."

"Will he be thinking for a while longer?" asked Andy.

"He could well be thinking indefinitely," answered John. "It's never clear what he's doing in that mind palace of his."

"Then why don't we look over your notes. Maybe we can help?" suggested Andy.

Ichabod and John exchanged a look rather than laugh at Andy's idea of helping Sherlock, but since they weren't doing anything else, Ichabod agreed they could go over the basics.

"So we have five victims," began John. "In order of when they probably died, we have the two who died over a year ago from the class of 1971, Paul Mallett and Joseph Fitzgerald. Then we have the death in Stanthorpe, Maurice Fairhaven, class of 1977. Then Carolin von Tassen, class of 87; followed by Theodore Wandsman, again from the class of 71; Yong Kang Xiong, class of 38; and now the witch who isn't Temperance Shipley, class of 66."

"So they're not being killed in any particular order based on when they went to Lamberton," mused Ichabod. "Since the witch isn't even Ms. Shipley, they actually didn't all go to Lamberton Academy at all. It is notable that three of the victims were from the class of 71."

"I'm sorry," interrupted Andy. "Who was before the witch?"

"I probably mangled his name," said John. "Yong Kang Xiong," he tried again.

Andy nodded. "Right. Edward Hung."

"How did you get that from Yong Kang Xiong?" asked John.

"That's how you would say his name in Mandarin, and it's his official Chinese name," said Andy. "But he and his family are from the Hong Kong area. They speak Cantonese mostly, and in Cantonese, their last name is pronounced 'Hung'."

Suddenly, Sherlock was in their midst. "That's it."

"What?" asked John.

"It's so obvious," said Sherlock before grabbing John's mug to take a sip of tea. "Justice. Cups. Wands. Temperance. And the Hanged Man. What do these suggest to you?"

"Aren't those all signs of the Tarot?" asked Ichabod.

"Exactly," said Sherlock. "That's what links these deaths together. They are all signs of the Tarot, albeit sometimes a bit of a stretch. And that's why the killer moved the final body to Temperance Shipley's apartment. First, she wasn't around to serve as a victim. Second, he had to kill his accomplice. Why not use his accomplice's body to complete the pattern."

"That's great," said John, "but how does that help us catch the killer? Is he done?"

"It's been staring us in the face the whole time. He's been taunting us with it." Sherlock walked over to the mantelpiece and pulled a stiff piece of card from under the skull.

"The invitation," said Ichabod. "The design on the invitation." Ichabod closed his eyes and he could see the four Tarot cards clearly. "Justice. The King of Cups. The Empress. The Hanged Man."

"So Fairhaven is Justice," said John cautiously. "von Tassen, I guess, is the King of Cups. And now we know Yong Kang Xiong is the Hanged Man. That leaves the Empress unaccounted for."

"That means there's at least one more victim to go," said Sherlock.

"What about the other two?" asked Andy. "Wandsman and Temperance?"

"I'm not sure," said Sherlock.

"Doesn't matter," said John. "We'd better call Greg and let him know about the Empress, whoever that might be. It would be good if we could avoid having another body on our hands."


	12. Sherlock

John handled the call to Greg Lestrade. With the connection between the victims established, Sherlock turned his mind to the spelled objects. Evidently there was a connection between those as well. A broken jar of gherkins. A tourist map. A bowl of chicken broth. A pair of chopsticks. Medicine capsules.

Sherlock turned to speak to John, but he was still on the phone with Lestrade. He looked at John, at the movement of his lips, the animation in his eyes, his fingers combing through his straw colored hair and mussing it into even greater disarray. Objectively speaking, there was nothing externally special about John Watson, but that was what was so amazing about him. John Watson looked and for the most part acted like a typical responsible and sensitive twenty-first century male. He was kind to old people, children and pets. He had atrocious taste in television and reading material, and he always assumed it was Beethoven when he heard a piece of classical music in an elevator. But behind that ordinary exterior lay an extraordinary man. He was brave and loyal to a fault, and he did not hesitate to shoot to kill when he felt the circumstances warranted it. And most exceptional of all, he loved Sherlock, madness and all.

Another curiosity. When they had kissed in the cab on the way to the murder scene this morning, it was as if Sherlock's brain had been energized. He felt as if his blood was pumping additional air into his veins, which allowed the synapses in his brain to fire even more quickly. The connections and answers about the dead witch came to him with amazing swiftness, and he could admit now that it was not unlike the high he had once gotten from taking cocaine. The observations poured out of him, and when he looked at John, he wanted to amaze him and draw from him that smile which indicated his pride in Sherlock's abilities.

What a fool he had been, to try and send John away. John was an adult and met Sherlock as an adult. John did indeed know what he was getting into, and he had chosen Sherlock all the same. How could Sherlock not have seen how diminished he would have been if John had left? Even now, he still ached at the thought that John had spent the night intimately connected with Ichabod and Andy. That could have been Sherlock, if only he had not been so blind. But Sherlock had pushed him into it and had no one to blame for the results of the evening other than himself. And truth be told, John could not have found two more ideal men to introduce him to intimacy between men than those two. Now John knew what that could be, and in his usual fashion, he was fearless and ready to find that intimacy with Sherlock.

When they had returned home, all he had wanted to do was to kiss John. No. That is a lie. He wanted to do much more than just kiss. However, they were on a case, and lives were at stake, perhaps even their own. As much as he wanted to kiss John more, his thoughts turned to the victims and what linked them together. Looking back, he had the Tarot connection just at the edge of his consciousness, but he hadn't been able to reconcile Yong Kang Xiong with that connection until he heard Andy's pronunciation of his name. The last piece had fallen into place, unlocking all of his disparate thoughts and pulling them into a coherent whole.

Now it was a question of the link between the spelled objects. That there was a message in their connection, Sherlock had no doubt.

John was hanging up, having convinced Lestrade to look through the list of Lambertonians for anyone with a name suggesting an Empress or royalty. Sherlock was about to go over the list of spelled objects with John, when Andy spoke up.

"Oh. A gherkin is like a pickle," Andy said. "I was wondering what you were talking about." He was looking at John's computer and had clearly done a definition search. "That's right," Andy continued. "I knew I had heard that word before, but I thought it was a place. You have this building in London called the gherkin."

Of course, thought Sherlock. Locations. Of what, he was not yet sure, but that they were dealing with locations, he had no doubt. "30 St Mary Axe. An office tower in the city. But not a complete jar, just a part of a jar, but enough of the jar to include a fragment of the label to show its former contents."

"So you think the items are giving us a location?" asked John.

"Locations, plural," responded Sherlock. "I'm not sure for what, but I'm sure they are locations. The map makes clear that all of them are located near the Thames."

"But the Gherkin is not near the Thames," said John. "It's blocks away in the City."

"That's because we are not supposed to be thinking of the Gherkin. It was not a complete jar, just a piece of it. Think John. What do you call a piece of glass."

John's eyes opened wide. "A shard. Or rather The Shard."

"Exactly," said Sherlock. "Just a block from the Thames, about as close to the river as a building of its size could be."

"That's quite a building," said Andy, still clicking links. "It's like a really big version of the Transamerica Pyramid in San Francisco, but a lot more glass and a lot scarier, especially the sharp bits at the top."

"The other spelled objects must indicate locations in the building," said Sherlock. "It's too big. The murderer can't mean to include the whole building."

"I don't recognize these businesses at all," said Andy. "Here. It's a directory of the building's tenants." He turned the laptop around and pushed it over to John.

"The building is only partially leased," said John. "The largest tenant is a hotel, the Shangri-La."

"Which has both a Chinese restaurant and a Chinese cafe," said Sherlock.

"So the chopsticks could be pointing to either one," mused John. "And there's a Boots on the lower level, which connects with the London Bridge Station."

"That's a pharmacy," said Ichabod to Andy, who nodded.

"But what about the chicken soup?" asked Andy.

"Andy wouldn't know this since you don't have this brand in the United States, but what's the most well-known brand of bouillon in the UK?" asked Sherlock.

"Of course," said John. "OXO. The OXO Tower. Also on the Thames." John immediately went searching on his laptop.

"So you don't think the chicken soup is a location inside the Shard?" asked Ichabod.

"It might be," said Sherlock, "but the murderer has been laying out clues for us with each killing. I doubt he, or she, is going to be straightforward now. I think he's enjoying this too much."

Andy visibly shivered. "I can't believe you guys deal with this stuff all the time."

"There are no Chinese restaurants or pharmacies at the OXO Tower," said John looking up. "It's mostly a bunch of gift shops and art galleries."

"I remember that place," said Andy. "I remember seeing the letters on the tower. We went there after we went to the museum with the big crack in the floor."

"The Tate Modern," confirmed Ichabod. "That's right. We went through the OXO Tower on the way along the south bank."

"That store where I bought the stuff for Abbie and Jenny," said Andy. "Didn't it have chopsticks? I know I saw a pair that had a guy with a coolie hat standing on stilts. I almost bought them somewhere."

"Do you remember the name of the store?" asked John.

"Wait. I think I still have the credit card slip in my wallet." Andy pulled out his wallet and a small stack of folded credit card receipts. He unfolded three of them before he found the one he was looking for. "It's called Jayme."

Andy spelled it for John, and John was soon clicking away.

"I think that must be it," said John. "I found the chopsticks Andy saw - they're called Hai-Lo - and guess what, there's also a medicine capsule. It's a pencil case. There's also a pencil case in the shape of a pickle."

"So do we go to these places?" asked Ichabod.

"It would be a waste of time at this point," said Sherlock. He had most of the pieces, but the final shape of the puzzle still eluded him. "There's no information about when and what the murderer wants us to accomplish. I'm afraid we need to find the Empress, preferably while she is still alive."

"What do we do in the meantime?" asked Andy.

Sherlock couldn't help but look at John, who was still clicking away on his laptop.

Andy gave a cough, and when Sherlock looked at him, it was clear that Andy had an idea what Sherlock was thinking. Sherlock couldn't deny that the thought of doing something with John in the meantime didn't cross his mind, but he was too distracted. "As pleasant as that might be," he said to Andy, "I think I would prefer circumstances where one has the expectation of not being interrupted."

Andy laughed, and Ichabod smiled. John looked up from his laptop. "Did I miss something?"

.....

After fifteen minutes of fidgeting in the flat, John suggested they go out for a walk, and Ichabod leapt on the suggestion and recommended a walk in Regent's Park, a short distance away. John was actually thinking they might go to Madame Tussaud's Wax Works, so Sherlock enthusiastically supported Ichabod's idea.

The four of them seemed to break into two pairs quite naturally, Ichabod and Sherlock walking ahead with John and Andy straggling behind. Sherlock had to admit that it was a fine afternoon, and when Ichabod's stomach growled, Sherlock steered them towards the Garden Cafe in the Inner Circle.

"He's a very good man, John," said Ichabod as they strolled.

Sherlock already knew that, but he also knew that Ichabod was really asking if Sherlock was ready to fully let John be a part of his life. "I've always known that," he said to Ichabod. "The problem has always rested with me."

"As it always does," chuckled Ichabod.

"I see that my deficiencies continue to amuse you," said Sherlock wryly.

"I laugh with affection. So now what? You seemed quite cozy in the cab. And I heard what you said back in the flat."

"I have reconsidered," Sherlock admitted. "I had not fully appreciated how much I need John. If he were to choose to leave me now, even if it were with you and Andy, I would be..." He couldn't find the word. He just felt the tightness in his chest at the thought.

"I'm glad you figured that out," said Ichabod. "John is good for you, Sherlock. And you seem to give him something he needs as well. You are well suited."

"I am fully realizing that," said Sherlock.

"He's also lovely in bed," added Ichabod.

"You have always been a total arse, Ichabod," said Sherlock.

.....

They had lunch at the cafe, and Sherlock allowed John to force him to eat what John called a wrap. Sherlock conceded it was a convenient way to consume a meal, and given the feelings he was having for John, he suspected he would have done almost anything John asked of him. Eating was a small concession.

Although they were all thinking about the murders, they ended up talking about the logistics of getting to the anniversary celebration. It was Wednesday, and the gala dinner was Saturday. They were all going to take the train down to Royal Tunbridge Wells on Friday and then a cab to Lamberton Woods. They each had booked rooms at the hotel rather than the option of staying in the dormitories. That would give them a day for Ichabod and Sherlock to show John and Andy around at a leisurely pace. They would enjoy the festivities on Saturday and then the dinner that evening. They would return to London on Sunday, at which point Ichabod and Andy had five more days to explore London, perhaps a day trip to Oxford and Cambridge.

For a time, it was almost as if they were just a normal foursome, discussing what to do for a summer's vacation; and, Sherlock had to admit, there was a time when he would have found normality something to shun rather than to appreciate. However, with John, the prospect of visiting Oxford was attractive. Everything with John had potential appeal. Sherlock was almost able to lose himself in this contemplation when his cell phone rang.

Immediately, the mood changed, and three pairs of eyes were on him as he answered Lestrade's call.

"We're not sure we've found your empress, Sherlock," said Lestrade. "But the M.O. is the same."

"Ah," said Sherlock. "We are clearly too late."

"Even with your warning, I don't think we would have figured out the next victim."

"No matter," said Sherlock. "We are on our way."

.....

The almost festive mood they were enjoying in Regent's Park vanished when they arrived at the modern flat in a new development near King's Cross Station. It was new but quite small, a unit in what the development advertised as a "lifestyle retirement community." There was a large multi-function room comprising the kitchen, a dining area, and a living area, where the victim's body was found. A bedroom and bathroom completed the flat.

"Her name is Patrice Cherchy-Desqueroux, class of 1928. French by birth, but living in London since graduating from Lamberton. She was a book editor for many years, retired from that in the early 70s, and more recently involved in the editorial side of a news and entertainment blog called Foyer."

Sherlock considered Lestrade's information, and it came to him with little effort "Imperatrice," said Sherlock. "French for 'empress.' You can see her name is a contraction of the word. You are right, Lestrade. I do not think even I would have made the connection."

"From what we can tell, she was only killed about mid-day."

Just around when they had figured out the connection to the Tarot. There had been no chance to save her. Sherlock looked around. "Where is the spelled object?"

"It's on the coffee table next to the body," Greg responded. Patrice Cherchy-Desqueroux was a stylish woman who obviously took good care of herself and knew how to dress. Even in death, the nonagenarian was neatly coifed and dressed in a white blouse and navy slacks. A string of black beads showed at her throat. Her nails were well manicured, and her black flats were unscuffed. She was seated on the couch with her head tilted back. She had not been moved, and there was no odor. She was undoubtedly who she appeared to be, dead in her own flat.

The spelled object was a model of a bicycle, made out of a single long piece of wire, twisted and shaped and then soldered, and mounted on a flat piece of metal. With the exception of the front wheel, which was actually a separate piece of wire and could turn freely. Was this another location? Or did it mean they should look for a bicycle shop or perhaps one of those shared bicycle racks now peppering London?

John went to look at the body, but Sherlock had already seen all he needed to see. Was this the last body then? And if so, what would the murderer do next? Sherlock was very sure there was a next step. Andy and Ichabod had gone into the kitchen area, located behind a raised countertop that doubled as a seating area. They were looking at the refrigerator.

"Have you found anything?" asked Sherlock.

"Just the invitation, as expected," answered Ichabod.

"And a sweet picture of her," said Andy, "drawn by a child. The picture says, Nana Cherchy-D,' so I'm guessing a grandchild."

"Quite a name for a child to write,” said Ichabod.

"We'll check on relatives," said Lestrade. "We'll have to notify the next of kin anyway."

"So what does a bicycle have to do with the other objects," said John, stepping next to Sherlock.

"We need to go back to the flat and see where the bicycle might fit in with the OXO Tower and The Shard. It might even be another location." Sherlock paused. "I still don't know, but I have a feeling it will be very important to know very soon. Let's go."

.....

It turned out there were bicycle stands outside both the OXO Tower and The Shard. There were no bicycle-themed objects at Jayme. It was frustrating, both the not knowing and the waiting. Sherlock was sure there was more to come. Several hours went by, and John and Andy went out to the nearby take-away for Indian food. Sherlock was too exasperated to be convinced to eat, his earlier thoughts about John notwithstanding. A bit after nine, with no new information and no news from Greg Lestrade, Ichabod suggested he and Andy return to the hotel for the night. John bid them good night, but Sherlock just stared out the window. He knew he was missing something, but what?

Sherlock could sense that John wanted to talk, wanted to be supportive, but he couldn't deal with that just then. His skin was beginning to crawl. He knew that John was a bit put out that Sherlock didn't want to talk to him, but John knew him and his moods. John went up to his room for the night.

Minutes continued to tick by and still nothing. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps nothing would happen tonight. But if not tonight, why the urgency in getting the body to Temperance Shipley's flat? Why another body by mid-day? Surely there was a timeline involved. Sherlock thought of taking out his violin. It was only just a little past 11, still early. Then his cell phone chimed, indicating the arrival of a text message. It chimed twice more. Three messages in total. He flicked open his phone.

Before he had even had the chance to read the first message, John was down the stairs in his pajamas. Sherlock looked through the messages.

"What do they say?" asked John. "Are they from Greg?"

Sherlock shook his head. It was what he had been waiting for. He read aloud, "Tick tock tick, Sherlock quick, Only four, Not one more, Midnight boom, Friend meets doom."

"Oh my god," cried John. "Ichabod and Andy." He immediately grabbed his cell phone. Sherlock had a different premonition. The message was in the singular. The number Sherlock called rang and then went to voicemail. He could hear John's relief as he talked with Andy. Sherlock called the desk at New Scotland Yard.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," said the night desk sergeant. "How can I help you?"

"I'm trying to reach Inspector Lestrade, but he isn't picking up."

"Isn't he with you, Mr. Holmes?"

"No, he is not."

"That's odd. He left here over half an hour ago saying he had to meet you." Sherlock hung up on the man.

"It's Lestrade," said Sherlock to John. "The murderer has him. This is what he has been planning all along. He has laid out all the clues, and now we have to find Greg."

"So only four of the clues actually mean anything," said John. "Which four?"

"Of course," said Sherlock. "The only four that have ever mattered. Justice. The Empress. The King of Cups. The Hanged Man. Quick, what are the four spelled items that were found with them."

John grabbed his notebook off of the table. Sherlock could actually easily recall the objects, but it was helpful to hear John's calm voice as he read from his notes. "Chopsticks. A bicycle model. Medicine capsules. The map of the Thames. So it's not the OXO Tower or The Shard."

"It has to be the last object. He was leading us on, holding the last clue until the last victim. A bicycle near the Thames."

Suddenly a thought took shape. He had to be sure. There wasn't enough time to run around London on a hunch. "John," said Sherlock. "Find out how many pods there are on the London Eye."

"The London Eye?" asked John even as he flipped open his laptop. He typed and clicked. "32."

"It's the London Eye," said Sherlock, grabbing his coat. "It wasn't the significance of the objects. It's what they created when you put them together."

As they ran down the stairs to the street, John said, "I can see the Eye looking like a bicycle wheel. And it's on the Thames. But chopsticks? Pills?"

"Not just pills, John," said Sherlock, waving his hand and flagging down a cab. "Capsules." They climbed in and Sherlock told the cabbie to go to the London Eye.

"It's closed at this time of night, you know," the cabbie said.

"We know," said Sherlock. "Just go."

"Capsules," Sherlock resumed. "The same shape as the pods on the Eye. And there were exactly 32 of them on the table with the victim. I wondered why there was no pill bottle. It's because the bottle wasn't part of the construction."

"How about the chopsticks?" asked John as the cab hurried through the night.

"Look at a picture of the Eye on your phone, John. What's holding it up?"

John clicked on his phone for a while. "Oh my god. Two steel rods. Like two chopsticks." He looked up. "Should I call Ichabod and Andy?"

"No," said Sherlock. "If there's the possibility of an explosion, I don't want either of them near there."

John nodded.

Although it was after 11, there was still a lot of traffic on the streets, and it took a good twenty-five minutes to get across the Thames to the site of the Eye. The cabbie dropped them off, and Sherlock ran ahead. Everything looked dark except for the Eye, which was illuminated by spotlights from the ground. Sherlock ran up to the fence which surrounded the Eye and saw nothing in the half dozen pods that were nearest the ground. He looked around and saw a faint glow from a control booth about fifteen metres away and outside the fence.

John caught up with him just as he put his hand on the door lever, which turned. They entered the control room. All was dark except for one screen. A row of lights glowed underneath. Sherlock and John walked up to the screen. In grainy bluish grey and white, a bound and gagged Greg Lestrade lay unconscious on the ground in one of the pods next to a contrivance of wires and tubes.

"It's a bomb," said John.

"Yes, John," said Sherlock, "that much is obvious. And here is the way to diffuse it."

Sherlock was looking at a second screen below the one showing Greg Lestrade. This one was part of a small laptop, and showing on the screen were the four Tarot cards found on the invitation. Below each card were two empty squares, and a cursor was flashing in the first square. This was too easy, wasn't it? Or was that what the murderer wanted him to think.

"It's got to be the initials of the victims," said John. "Justice is Maurice Fairhaven - MF. The Empress is Patrice Cherchy-Desqueroux – PC. It couldn’t be PD, could it? The King of Cups is Carolin von Tassen. Shit. Is it CV or CT? And Yong Kang Xiong. Is it YX?"

Sherlock thought. This wasn't about Greg Lestrade. And it had never been about the victims either. This had always been about him. But there were four cards. If the cards weren't about the victims, and this was about him, then the cards were about him and three others connected with him.

"It looks like detaching the laptop won't do any good," said John, who had been peering at the connectors to the laptop. "Unless we can send a signal to the bomb to deactivate it, it will go off. I'm guessing a wrong answer will be just as bad."

"The murderer doesn't want to kill me," said Sherlock. "And he doesn't want to kill you. Yet, he's perfectly content to risk Greg Lestrade's life. Which means the four doesn't include him."

"What four are you talking about?" asked John, looking at him.

"The four of us. You. Me. Ichabod. Andy. The four Tarot cards have always been about the four of us."

"Are you sure?" asked John. "No. Of course you are. So Justice is clearly you. Yes - just like in your yearbook caption."

Sherlock typed in an S and an H.

"Who is the Empress?" asked John. "None of us is female."

"Think John. You just mentioned the yearbook. The Empress represents, among other things, sensuality."

"Ichabod," said John. Sherlock nodded and typed in an I and a C.

"So which one is Andy?" asked John.

"The King of Cups represents nurturing and caring. The Hanged Man represents sacrifice and new perspectives."

"Shit," said John. "I would say both of them could be Andy."

"Or you, John," said Sherlock.

Sherlock watched John's face as he considered the choice. Sherlock believed he knew the answer, but for some reason, he felt that John, for a change, knew something that he did not. He needed to hear John's answer before he entered the last four letters.

"Oh god," muttered John, his hands clasped nervously. "No. It has to be. New perspectives. That's Andy. So King of Cups is me, and the Hanged Man is Andy."

Sherlock nodded. He wasn't sure how new perspectives applied to Andy or at least how it did more so than to John. But he trusted John. He typed in a J, a W, an A, and a B. 

And then he pressed Return.


	13. Andy

"Was that a suspicious call or not?" Andy asked Ichabod. It was around half past ten. They were settling in for a pay-per-view movie to empty their heads. Andy was delighted to see Goonies was on the menu.

"Definitely had the feel of them checking to see if we were all tucked in and safely in bed. Knowing Sherlock, he, and undoubtedly John, have an idea what is going to happen next and are checking on the possibilities."

"Should I call them back to check on them?" Andy lifted up his cell ready to dial.

Ichabod shook his head. "They do this for a living, so they're the experts. Let's call back in half an hour."

The band of Goonies was in the basement of the abandoned building when Andy hit pause and dialed. "They're not picking up," Andy grumbled.

"Don't fret. Reception is erratic all over the city. We'll try again in a bit."

The Goonies had just solved the puzzle of the organ made of bones when Andy tried again. "Shit. They still don't answer. When am I allowed to start really worrying?"

"I'll call Greg. If they're out this late, Greg is probably involved."

When Ichabod couldn't get through to Greg, he agreed that they could worry.

"They're likely at the OXO Tower or The Shard. By the Thames at any rate," thought Ichabod. "At the very least, if we're down at the river, we can get to them sooner once we find out where they are."

It helped to get out of bed, get dressed, and get back out on the street. The Goonies were left marooned in the cave, for the moment forgotten. Andy marveled at all the activity this late at night. San Francisco was a major city but a relatively sleepy place compared to London. At midnight, there would be few souls out, and the only places open late night coffee shops, bars, and clubs. Here, in contrast, in front of the Hilton, crowds walked by, grocery stores continued to do a brisk trade, tables of diners could be seen in restaurant windows, and travelers came out of the station in a steady flow.

Cabs were numerous (coming across a free cab in San Francisco at midnight was rare), and soon they were headed south towards the river. It was now a few minutes after midnight, and Andy tried John's cell again. Andy felt a huge knot of anxiety dissipate when he heard John on the other end. It was a very brief call, more or less a reassurance that all three of them were okay and their location.

Andy hung up and met Ichabod's relieved eyes. "The London Eye."

.....

When their cab pulled up at The London Eye, there were a number of other vehicles on the plaza. As Andy and Ichabod walked across the plaza, it looked like they were going to get stopped by a policeman, but John popped up and spoke to the cop, and they were allowed to draw closer.

"The bomb is not yet defused, so stay here for the moment until we get the all clear," said John.

"What bomb?" asked Andy anxiously.

"Ah," said John. "A bit has happened since we left you." And while they waited, John shared with them the text, the bomb, and the keypad puzzle.

"Greg is okay?" asked Ichabod at the end of the recounting.

"As far as we can tell. He's in a deep sleep. Sherlock suspects a Sleeping Beauty spell. We haven't tried to lift the spell yet. The bomb he was attached to took priority."

Andy couldn't believe all of it. He had thought dealing with shadows and the essences of his mother and Ichabod's was strange enough, but throwing in a crazy person who set out puzzles with murdered bodies and then a bomb - what kind of world did John and Sherlock live in?

Even as Andy contemplated this thought, Sherlock came sweeping out of the crowd of police.

"We've gone through the PCs of both genders as well as myself, and nothing has worked so far. You are up next, John."

John nodded and headed over to the Eye.

"Andy. Ichabod," Sherlock acknowledged.

"What is John doing?" asked Andy. Knowing John's medical training, he asked, "Is Greg hurt?"

"Offering a kiss," Sherlock gave by way of an explanation.

"Sleeping Beauty," emphasized Ichabod, and Andy figured it out.

"Don't you need a prince?" asked Andy.

"We'll contact the royal household only if necessary," said Sherlock. "It is actually quite hard to require that the kiss be from royalty. There really is no common genotype to work with."

Andy and Ichabod followed Sherlock onto the loading platform and into one of the pods of the Eye. Greg was lying on the floor fast asleep. John was standing and wiping a sleeve across his lips.

"A bit too much saliva," John said sheepishly. "And I'm thinking it didn't work." They all looked at Greg's still prostrate form.

"Next?" said Sherlock, looking at Ichabod. "Your reputation is on the line."

Ichabod snorted but went forward, knelt, and gave Greg a kiss on the lips.

"I thought true love was involved," mumbled Andy.

"How quaint," said Sherlock with an amused and definitely sardonic smile. "Perhaps you should look for a frog."

"No go," commented Ichabod, returning to Andy's side. He looked at Andy and said, "Your turn."

"Me?" Ichabod nodded, so Andy went forward and knelt. Greg looked quite peaceful and, if the circumstances weren't so strange, decidedly kissable. Andy leaned in and touched his lips to Greg's.

Immediately, Greg drew in a deeper breath, and Andy nearly toppled over backwards in surprise. Greg twitched a bit and then opened his eyes. "Okay," he grumbled. "Who was it?"

"Andy," replied Sherlock from behind Andy's shoulder.

"Figures," grunted Greg. "I heard him saying I'd have a craving for Chinese takeaway." Andy wasn't sure if he should take offense at that.

"You saw him?" asked John in excitement.

"Er, no," conceded Greg. "Just heard him right before I fell asleep. Can't say I saw anything. Got a call to meet you here, and the fake Sherlock laid out why it had to be The London Eye. The pod was open, so I walked over expecting to see you. Felt the spell even as I approached, but by then, I was already falling."

"Yes, I can see that. Nasty bruise on your left arm," said Sherlock.

"So now what?" asked Andy. He wasn't sure whether to feel smug that his kiss had awakened Greg.

"Right now, if you're all up for it, I'm feeling rather hungry," said Greg.

.....

They ended up at a Greek restaurant, and Greg tucked into fried potatoes and souvlaki while the others had something less substantial accompanied by sweet mint tea.

Andy listened to the second recounting of how Sherlock and John had come to Greg's rescue, this time from Sherlock's lips, but even though it was quite exciting the second time around, Andy found himself nodding off. He shook himself awake and looked at the watch on Ichabod's wrist. No wonder. It was well past four.

"I guess it's time to take the little ones home," joked Ichabod, giving Andy a nudge. Andy just gave him a sleepy grin.

They paid and left, and Andy couldn't help but notice that there were still two tables of diners at this time of morning. What a city.

Sherlock hailed a cab, and they all piled in. "Home?" Sherlock asked, directing the question at Greg. When Greg didn't answer, Andy looked over at him and saw the slight hesitation on his face.

"Actually," said Sherlock, "I think it might be better if we stayed more or less together for the time being. We're all leaving for Lamberton tomorrow, and I suspect each of us will be quite anxious with the others out of sight. Why don't we head back to Baker Street and we can rest there."

Greg looked relieved that he hadn't had to say anything. Andy couldn't help but marvel at Sherlock's perceptiveness.

The rhythms of the cab must have put Andy to sleep because the next thing he knew, Ichabod was nudging his shoulder. They had arrived at 221B.

The five of them trudged up the stairs to Sherlock and John's flat. When they were all standing in the living room, it became apparent that the sleeping arrangements needed to be worked out.

Again, Sherlock took the lead. "Greg should take John's bed, which is really only suitable for one person anyway. Ichabod and Andy and John can take my bed, which is large enough for a small regiment."

"Wait," said Andy. "What about you?"

"I'm not sleepy," said Sherlock and promptly sat down on the living room sofa and pulled out his laptop. "While you all rest, I can do some more research on the victims and the Tarot. I think he was still just toying with us. It was too easy to rescue Greg."

"I'm a bit wired myself," said Ichabod. "I'll keep Sherlock company until I feel ready to take a kip."

Andy was simply too tired to say anything, so he leaned over and gave Ichabod a kiss on the cheek and headed off to Sherlock's bedroom at the end of the hall past the kitchen. He took a brief detour to the bathroom to rinse his face and heed the call of nature.

When he entered Sherlock's room, he found John already face planted on the left side of Sherlock's bed, asleep on the covers. Andy took off his outer clothes and crawled under the covers. Sherlock's pillow was a bit too soft, and the down comforter was a bit warm, but even as those complaints rose in his mind, he fell asleep.

.....

Andy slowly came awake, noting that nothing felt or smelled quite right. The pillow his face was pressed against enveloped his face and there was a spiciness in the fabric that was unfamiliar. The weight against his back was also not quite right. It was warm and solid, but it lacked the angularity that he was used to, and the heavy breaths against the back of his neck were clearly not Ichabod's, whose breathing was incredibly light.

Andy shifted on to his back and looked over at the sleeping face of John Watson. The movement had clearly registered because John's eyelids were already twitching.

"Oh," said John, eyes opening. "Good morning. Have to say I wasn't expecting to see you so close up and personal."

"Good morning to you, too. Although I think it's probably afternoon. I feel pretty rested."

John lifted his watch into view. "Correct. It's almost one. Good afternoon. Any sign of the others?"

Andy shook his head. "No noises since I woke up, which was just before you. Should we be worried?"

John laughed softly and snuggled closer to Andy, wrapping an arm around him over the comforter. "No more than normal."

Andy pulled an arm out from under the comforter and put his hand on top of John's forearm.

"It's incredible to me that you can live like this," said Andy. "People being murdered, running around town in the middle of the night, villains lurking in the dark."

John laughed again. "Actually, I wouldn't have it any other way."

Andy thought quietly for a moment. "So you're good with running around with Sherlock, chasing after him, being his right hand man?"

John hugged Andy tighter. "When I came back from the Middle East, I wasn't sure what I was going to do. And there were a lot of things I didn't really know about myself. When I found Sherlock, I found myself. I'm a good leader when I need to be, but I'm a much better second in command. I need a bit of adventure and danger, but I'm much better when someone else has the bigger picture. I'm good with that."

Andy thought about himself and Ichabod. He had essentially dropped into Ichabod's life, and now he was his assistant and life partner. "Sometimes," Andy began, "I wonder if it's okay to just be Ichabod's assistant. I don't think I ever had any real direction. I was the office manager for a law firm for a number of years, but I don't think I was ever clear about what I wanted to do."

"What do you want to do?" asked John.

"I still don't know," said Andy. "I guess I'm wondering if it's okay to be in my thirties and not have any clear direction."

"What's wrong with being Ichabod's assistant? Aren't you happy?"

Andy nodded. "I am happy. But I wonder if I should be happy. Shouldn't I want to do more with my life?"

John pulled Andy closer. "I can't speak for you, but I try to enjoy each day as it comes. I could have died in Iraq. And I had thoughts of ending it all when I came back and didn't know what I was going to do with myself. But then I found Sherlock, and it was a gift. A gift I remind myself to be thankful for each day."

Andy tightened his fingers around John's forearm. "A good thought."

They lay there quietly for a moment. Finally, Andy said, "It's kind of like having an older and wiser brother."

John snorted. "Who you cuddle with in bed and have had sex with."

Andy shrugged. "A common enough fantasy for a lot of men."

"You okay?" asked John.

Andy nodded. "Yes. Thanks. I just have these thoughts from time to time, and there isn't really anyone to share them with."

John placed a quick kiss on Andy's cheek. "Okay, little brother. I think it's time we got up and check in on the rest of our merry band."

.....

When they emerged from Sherlock's bedroom, they found Greg sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, the petri dishes piled by the sink, Ichabod still asleep lying on the couch, and Sherlock sitting in John's arm chair staring silently at the fingers steepled in front of him.

"Good afternoon, sleepyheads," said Greg.

"How are you?" asked John.

"For having been knocked out by a sleeping spell and attached to a bomb, not bad at all. I would, however, recommend that you change that mattress John. Can't be good for your back."

"Didn't you sleep okay?" John asked.

"Like the dead," answered Greg. "But fortunately not so."

"So what has the great one figured out?" asked John, nodding his head in Sherlock's direction.

"Hasn't spoken a word since he said ‘no’ to a cup of tea about half an hour ago. So I have no idea."

Sherlock turned to face them and said, "The Great One has actually figured out several things, but none of them are very helpful at this point since we are still missing pieces of the puzzle."

"What have you figured out?" asked John. "Maybe if you run them by us, it'll help you sort them out."

Sherlock smirked, but affectionately. "Do you want to write them down on post-it notes and arrange them on the wall?"

"Not a bad idea," answered John, "but I doubt I have any post-it notes left. Someone used them all up to recreate a mosaic the other day, and they eventually lost their adhesiveness and fell off the wall all over the floor. Which I cleaned up."

"It helped to solve that crime," asserted Sherlock. "Then take notes on your laptop or on a piece of paper."

"I can take notes," volunteered Andy, wanting to be useful. John rummaged through a stack of papers on the side table near the sofa and pulled out a lined note pad. He also located a pen.

"It's a red pen, I think," said John. "A teacher, client, was marking papers while waiting for Sherlock to help him with a case and left it behind. Good thing since writing implements seem to vanish in this flat as soon as they arrive."

"I'm pretty sure Sherlock eats them," joked Greg.

Andy took the pen and pad and settled himself at the kitchen table in amanuensis mode. He looked to Sherlock to show him he was ready.

Sherlock began to pace in front of the street windows as he began to talk. "First, there were two murders from a year ago. Lambertonians. Class of 1971. Greg called me in after the second murder victim was found, and it was quite easy to figure out the witch that was involved and who the murderer would target next. There was a clear pattern to follow. Unfortunately, the murderer managed to elude us before committing the third murder and then went to ground. The most important fact is that I had an encounter with the murderer, albeit indirect. I ended up on the murderer's radar.

"Second, someone has been setting up a series of murders, again Lambertonians for the most part, that would be baffling enough for the police, a low enough bar..."

At this, Greg was in the middle of a sip of tea and only managed a grunt of protest.

"Apologies," said Sherlock. "Present police persons excepted. The six murders had no clear link aside from Lamberton Academy. They came from different classes. They were parts of different professional circles. As far as we can tell, they had no interaction with each other."

"But they all had names that connected to the Tarot," protested John.

"As I said, the only link was to Lamberton Academy. The link to the Tarot is clearly a link to the anniversary celebration, for which the Tarot is the theme. Spelled objects were left with each body for us to find. Aside from the link to Lamberton, there was no real link because, in fact, the murderer was just creating a puzzle for us to solve.

"Do you mean the whole thing was just a puzzle for its own sake?" asked Greg.

"Exactly," said Sherlock. "Think. Why create a puzzle of this complexity? And throw in a bomb threat at the end to give it a sense of urgency? The murderer had no real animus towards the victims. He chose them because they fit a pattern. They were suitable pieces for a puzzle. So why create the puzzle in the first place?"

John snapped his fingers. "That's the link to the first two murderers. His intention was to get your attention. He knew the World's Foremost Consulting Detective..."

"Only," interjected Sherlock.

"Only Consulting Detective," corrected John, "would only be interested in a case, or cases, if they presented some sort of challenge. So he created a challenge that would pull you in."

"Very good, John. And he succeeded. But between the first two murders and these six, the murderer also figured out something else because he ended up not just focusing on me, but also on you, Andy and Ichabod. Greg, I'm sorry to say, was just a pawn in this situation."

"Story of my life," said Greg. "Always the damsel in distress, never the hero."

"You keep saying 'he'," noted Andy, who had been scribbling furiously. "Are you sure it's a man?"

"Yes," said Sherlock. "The plotting, the choice of victims, the method of death. Believe me, all of them point to the murderer being a man. When we have more time, I can share with you the reasoning behind this."

"You'll need days," joked John.

"So why would he want to get your attention?" asked Greg.

Sherlock stopped pacing and stood by the fireplace. "There are two reasons. One, he wants me to know that he is playing with me. Two, it was a test."

"A test for what?" asked John.

"That is still unclear," conceded Sherlock, resting his hand on the mantelpiece.

Andy was writing as fast as he could, but he could feel a cramp coming on.

"Third," said Sherlock, resuming his reasoning and his pacing, this time between the fireplace and the kitchen table, "there is some reason he is focusing on the four of us: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Ichabod Crane, and Andy Brooks. As with the names of the victims, there is something significant about the four of us and the relationship with the Tarot. Andy with the Hanged Man. John with the King of Cups. Ichabod with the Empress, and myself with Justice."

Andy stopped writing. He was kind of embarrassed to ask, but given the significance and what had been happening, it didn't seem foolish not to take any chances. He looked to John and asked, "Do you have another color pen?"

"What's wrong?" asked John. "Did the pen run out of ink?"

"No," answered Andy, feeling more sheepish with every second. He realized he should just get it out. "I know this is going to sound foolish, but the Chinese believe that if you write someone's name in red, it means that they will die. I know it's just superstition, but given the circumstances, I would feel better writing everyone's name in a different color."

John chuckled. "I know I have a pen in my bedside stand that Sherlock hasn't made off with. I'll go and get it." John ran up the stairs.

Andy just looked down at the notepad feeling rather silly. He had written the four Tarot cards, but he just couldn't write their names next to them in red. He could hear Sherlock pacing, and then Sherlock stopped. Andy looked up, and Sherlock was looking at him.

"What?" asked Andy.

"Red letters," said Sherlock. "There were words in red letters at each of the murders. No, I don't believe at all of them. But there were letters in red." Sherlock walked over to the sofa and shook Ichabod awake.

"What?" mumbled Ichabod sleepily. "What's wrong? Is everyone okay?"

"I need your help," said Sherlock. "I need you to remember the red words."

"What? You'll have to let me wake up a bit. I have no idea what you're talking about." Ichabod ran his hands through his hair and stretched. "Let me go wash my face, and you can plan how to explain to me what you want." Ichabod got up and stumbled down the hall in his stocking feet.

"I have no idea what you're talking about either," admitted Greg. "What red words?"

Sherlock huffed, and John came clambering down from his room. "What did I miss?" he asked. "When Sherlock huffs, something usually happened."

"He's muttering about red words," said Greg.

"No idea," said John, handing Andy a blue ball point pen.

Ichabod reappeared, wiping his hands on his pant legs. "Okay, again, Sherlock, and in clear English."

Sherlock huffed again, and Andy could hear John chuckle. "I need you to recall the documents you viewed at each of the murder sites. There were documents that had words written in red, but the only one I recall is the one at the final murder, 'Nana Cherchy-D.' I wondered at the time why a child would abbreviate the last name for his grandmother in such a fashion. The reason is that the words are a part of another clue."

Andy wrote down 'Nana Cherchy-D' and tried to remember anything with red words. What was it like inside Ichabod's photographic memory?

"Carolin von Tassen," Ichabod said. "She wrote poetry. On one of the pages, she had added a line in red that read, 'color both my noon sorrows.' A rather lovely line, I thought at the time."

Andy wrote the line down.

"Stanthorpe," Ichabod continued. "Maurice Fairhaven. I don't recall any red words on the mail he was looking through."

"It doesn't have to be in front of him," stated Sherlock. "Patrice Cherchy-Desqueroux had the words on the child's picture on her refrigerator."

"That's it," said Ichabod. "On the refrigerator. He had a traffic ticket. On it in red letters he had written, 'This is a joke.' Do you think that's it?"

"Our murderer has been very intentional. I'm sure those words are important."

"I don't recall anything for Theodore Wandsman, the car salesman," said Ichabod.

"Of course not," said Sherlock emphatically. "Just as he wasn't a part of the clue to finding Greg. He wasn't one of the four Tarot. There undoubtedly wasn't anything for Temperance Shipley either, especially since the woman who was killed wasn't Temperance Shipley. That leaves Yong Kang Xiong, also known as Edward Hung."

Ichabod hesitated. "I'm afraid, Sherlock, that I didn't see that murder site. I believe you went to that one with Andy alone."

Andy looked up. Ichabod's eidetic memory was useless when he hadn't been there. And Andy hadn't even gone into the office where Mr. Hung's body was found. It had made him a bit queasy thinking about seeing another dead body, the whole thing bringing to mind viewing his aunt's dead body on the security video.

Sherlock had stopped pacing and stood motionless in front of the street window. Andy could feel everyone hold still, hoping that the silence would enable Sherlock to remember a document with red words. Andy could hear several watches ticking.

"There was nothing," said Sherlock finally. "I don't recall anything with red words on it in the office. It wouldn't have been hidden away. The murderer would have wanted us to find it. It would have been obvious."

"Maybe there wasn't anything to be found then," commented Greg.

"No. That breaks the pattern," said Sherlock. "Our murderer has been very methodical."

Andy had been listening to Sherlock talk, and his comment that the words would have been obvious struck a chord. Andy had talked with the wife and daughter in the kitchen. They had offered him a cup of tea, but Andy had had a glass of water instead. He had been very thirsty for some reason. He had finished the one glass and had another. He had gotten it himself from the pitcher in the refrigerator. Of course. It was the refrigerator again.

"The grocery list," said Andy excitedly. "There were words written on the grocery list that they didn't recognize. The list stuck behind the invitation. The words were written in different colors, but I remember. Some of the words were written in red."


	14. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guys finally unmask the villain and head off to face him. The end of the story approaches.

"In the pocket of my coat, John," Sherlock said.

John went to the coat rack by the front door and went through Sherlock's pockets. Sure enough, in one pocket was a folded Lamberton Academy invitation and a piece of paper torn off of a notepad. A grocery list. He went back in the living room and went over to Andy.

"These are the things written in red," John said. "Bread. Milk. Jam."

Andy wrote the words down. "I don't see how all these words might be a clue. They just seem like random words. Except for the ones for the French woman. Those seem a bit strange."

"Maybe we should be rearranging the words," suggested Greg, leaning across the table to look at the four messages.

"Or better yet," said Sherlock, "rearranging the letters." Sherlock moved to the kitchen table to look at the words on Andy's notepad. Ichabod stood behind Andy to look over his shoulder.

"The French one," said John. "The first word almost sounds like the first part of Andy’s name repeated. And the second like the first part of Sherlock’s name."

John was stunned to be suddenly embraced by Sherlock, who took the opportunity to give him a very solid kiss on the lips. Apparently, they wouldn't have to be telling Greg that their relationship had changed after all.

"You, John," said Sherlock as he pulled back from the kiss, "never cease to amaze me. If it is up to me, you will never leave my side."

John was almost as stunned by the public declaration as the embrace. "You're welcome," he stammered. "For whatever."

Sherlock let go of John and turned to Andy. "Cross out all the letters that spell out our names. I believe that what remains is our clue."

John watched as Andy put dots under the letters of their names as he crossed off the corresponding letters from the messages. Andy was being careful, but John could feel himself grow impatient. Another dot, another strikeout. Another dot, another strikeout.

"I guess I'm done," said Andy finally. "Here's what's left. Y-R-R-T-I-O-M-I-J-A-M."

"Do you think it's another name?" asked Ichabod. "I can see TIM or JIM or MARTY."

"We need the list of all the Lambertonians," said Sherlock to Greg. "I assume you have it in electronic format so that we can search it."

"I'll call Donovan and have her send it to John electronically," said Greg, standing and pulling out his cell phone. He went over to the fireplace to place his call.

"I can get MIRIAM," said Andy, "but that's a woman."

"I get MOM," said John, realizing as he offered this that it was of no help at all.

"JIMMY," said Ichabod.

"TIMMY," said Andy.

"We're unlikely to be dealing with a seven-year-old," said Sherlock with more than a touch of annoyance.

"TOM and TOMMY," said John, feeling better that he could offer something closer to the mark.

"RORY," said Andy.

Greg rejoined them and told them Donovan would send over the list as soon as possible.

.....

Greg sighed. "Of the list of still living male Lambertonians, which number 1,243, there are twenty-seven Jameses, eleven Martins, two Timothys, fourteen Thomases, and zero Rories."

"What about MAJOR something," suggested Andy.

"We don't have military titles for them, I'm afraid," said Greg.

"And what are we looking for?" asked Ichabod. "Are we looking for a future victim or the murderer?"

"Decidedly the murderer," said Sherlock. "For whatever reason, the murderer has included himself with the four of us. This is not the name of the victim. It is the name of someone who thinks that we have something that he wants."

John fingered the Lamberton invitation in his hands, folding and unfolding it. That was over forty people to consider. How would they figure it out?

Then John looked at the invitation and read through it. At first, he didn't trust what he saw. It couldn't be that obvious, could it? But he read through the invitation again, and gradually, it dawned on him that, indeed, it might be that simple.

"I think I've found something," said John. The room fell silent and turned to him. "Actually, it might not be anything, but I was reading through the invitation, and one of the organizers of the anniversary celebration is a Lambertonian from the class of 1993. His name is Jim Moriarty. If I'm not mistaken, the letters remaining spell out his name."

The silence continued, and John began to feel uncomfortable, as if he had said something truly ridiculous.

"As I said before," said Sherlock, breaking the silence, "John is ceaselessly amazing."

John looked at Sherlock in surprise, and he couldn't deny the warmth that flowed through him at the look of pride that he saw in Sherlock's eyes.

"So many things fall into place," said Sherlock. "How the murderer knew where all the victims lived. How the murderer knew that all four of us would be in London. How the murderer was able to influence the theme for the anniversary event. He was a member of the organizing committee. And he lists himself as 'Jim' on the invitation, not as 'James'?"

"Jim," John confirmed.

"So you think it's likely that this Jim Moriarty is who we are looking for?" asked Greg.

"I would say," said Sherlock, "that it is the most likely path. Of course, you can continue to look at the other Timothys and Jameses, but I would say this is our murderer."

"What now?" said Greg.

"Jim Moriarty is likely not expecting us to arrive in Lamberton Woods until tomorrow. That gives us a day to find out as much about him as possible before we get there. I would say that our best course of action is to prepare ourselves for Jim Moriarty."

.....

The five of them headed out to New Scotland Yard shortly thereafter. Andy and Ichabod worked through the list of Lambertonians just in case there was another name that fit the remaining red letters. Greg worked through the records on file for Jim Moriarty to get as much information as possible on the man. John ended up in an empty office with Sherlock, who was seated with his eyes closed and thinking. As always.

John contemplated the man before him. Sherlock had an oval face with a sharp chin and prominent cheekbones. His was an intense face, a face that seemed to broker little that was superfluous. At the same time, Sherlock had full red lips and the most amazing grey eyes. John realized he could lose himself in either. Sherlock also had a mop of unruly curls that John had already run his hands through while they were kissing. The curls were soft and pliant, so unlike the man. Or at least how he appeared. They were on the brink of taking things further, and perhaps John would discover that Sherlock was far more pliant than he looked.

This was, however, all superficial. John realized that he was very much in love with Sherlock not (just) because of how he looked but because of his incredible mind. John would never understand how Sherlock's mind worked, but he could still appreciate the beauty of it. Sherlock had talked about his mind palace in an attempt to help John understand how he processed and stored information. John got the gist of it, but most of the time he was lost in the sound of Sherlock's voice, the intensity of his words, and the acuity of his mind.

"Stop staring at me, John," Sherlock said suddenly. John was pulled from his reflections quite abruptly. "I appreciate your admiration for me, and you should know that my appreciation for you is boundless in return. When this is all over, I look forward to the time to fully explore your body and what gives you pleasure."

John nearly swallowed his tongue. "You really have to watch that, Sherlock. I'm used to the alarmingly personal and generally embarrassing revelations, but if we're going to be more than just partners in the investigative sense, you're going to have to reign in the comments about our intimate relations. I don't think I'll be able to handle it."

Sherlock opened his eyes and gave John what could only be described as a leer. "You love it."

Damn it, John realized. He did.

.....

To John's eyes, it was a fairly bedraggled group around the table at Angelo's at dinner. In spite of their naps, Andy and Ichabod looked pretty wiped out. Greg looked worse, and given the fact that he was also recovering from a sleeping spell, it wasn't a surprise. John, himself, felt pretty depleted, which only annoyed him the more to see Sherlock alert and conversing with Angelo about the evening's specials as if he had not been awake for more than 36 hours.

John was planning to enjoy his fettuccine carbonara, Sherlock's usual jibes aside. He didn't really care what anyone else was ordering. He liked familiar things. The red and white checked table cloths and the candles in the red hobnail glass holders. His easy chair. His afternoon cuppa. His pasta. His pint.

"Andy and I didn't find a single other name that could fit the letters of the clue," said Ichabod. "We're guessing that Jim Moriarty has to be it. What did you find out?"

"He's a Lambertonian," began Greg. "Class of 1993. Those we already knew. A student at the top of his class. Brilliant mind according to his professors. He was a bit of a loner according to other members of his class. No one recalls him being romantically involved with anyone of either gender. No one we contacted even had a one-night go around with him. A bit odd there given that he's not a bad-looking bloke, to go by his yearbook pictures. Some of you would be a better judge of that. But he volunteered to work on the anniversary celebration, and according to the committee members, he's been a very hardworking member."

John was embarrassed to find himself dwelling on Greg's comment that some of them were better able to judge Moriarty's attractiveness. He guessed that included him, too, now.

"Nothing jumps out," said Andy. "If he's our man, and I guess he has to be, what does he want?"

"Not much to go on there," continued Greg. The waiter came by and poured glasses of red wine for Ichabod and Sherlock. John and the others each had a beer. Greg took a sip of beer and made a sound of contentment before going on. "Not surprisingly, he helped to choose the theme for the celebration and worked with the designer on the invitation. The designer said Moriarty was specific about the four Tarot cards that appeared in the design. Told him it was related to a special element of the theme."

"No kidding," remarked Andy.

"Not much else to report. He got along well enough with his classmates but wasn't very close to any of them. The one interesting thing is that he actually still lives in the Lamberton Woods area. He has a home just outside the town."

"I guess that's where we're going to start then," remarked John, snapping himself out of his prior contemplation and thinking ahead to the following day.

The food arrived, and the conversation was rather desultory. John just enjoyed the creaminess under his tongue and the pleasant saltiness of the bacon. It was hard to imagine a more ideal combination. He resisted the urge to look at each of his dinner companions in turn to evaluate what he found attractive about each.

"So what do we do tonight?" asked Greg. "I have to go back to my place to finish packing."

"And our things are back at the Hilton," said Ichabod. "Even if we end up back at Baker Street, we have to go back to get our things together as well."

John was about to invite them all to spend the night at Baker Street when Sherlock said, "I think Mr. Moriarty has suspended his activities for the moment. The denouement will be in Lamberton Woods. While I think it was wise to stay together this afternoon, I see no reason we can't return to our respective lodgings for the night. At the same time, I recommend that we stay in contact."

"A text every hour until we go to bed?" suggested Ichabod.

"That would work," said Sherlock.

"I don't like Greg going home alone," said Ichabod.

"Why don't we see if the Hilton can give us a room with two beds?" said Andy. "We'll go by Greg's to get his stuff, and then he can spend the night with us."

"That's fine by me," said Greg.

"And if they can't get you another room, we can always have Greg return here," said John. "He can use my bed again."

"I can't put you out of your bed for the night, John," said Greg. "I can take the couch."

Ichabod laughed, and John could feel a blush coming on. "I don't think John will mind being pushed out of his bed for the night. I think he has other places to sleep now."

.....

As it turned out, the night was uneventful, as Sherlock had foretold. Andy and Ichabod had arranged for a room with two beds for the night, and Greg had kipped with them. They rendezvoused at London Bridge Station, which was, ironically, situated just underneath the Shard. John shuddered a little, thinking that if they had mistakenly gone to the Shard instead that Greg might no longer be with them. Then he chided himself. When had Sherlock been wrong when it counted?

They boarded a train a little after ten for the less-than-an-hour journey down to Royal Tunbridge Wells, the nearest station to Lamberton Woods. London seemed to fall away quite quickly, and John enjoyed the flight of fields and suburbs that passed their window. Sherlock also looked out the window from the facing seat, and occasionally he looked at John. Sherlock had insisted they sleep in their own beds the night before since they needed to be at their most alert, but there had been a good ten minutes of furious kissing standing in the kitchen before Sherlock had (with reluctance John thought), sent John on his way. Perhaps John was still imagining things, but he felt each look was as full of promise and intent as each kiss of the previous evening. He could see his smile reflected in the window after each look they shared.

Andy was flipping through the yearbook for the class of 93 next to him. Ichabod and Greg were chatting too quietly to be overheard across from him.

They arrived in Tunbridge Wells without fanfare, and Sherlock commented that several of their fellow disembarking passengers were also early arriving Lambertonians. The five of them ended up in two cabs for the fifteen minute ride to the town of Lamberton Woods and the Academy Hotel, where they were staying. They left their bags with the desk since their rooms were not yet ready and had lunch in a nearby restaurant.

Lamberton Woods was pretty unremarkable, thought John. It was pretty much like many Kentish towns. There was a high street through town, running through the town square with its market cross situated in front of what was formerly the town well. The hotel, which was only two hundred years old, was on the high street, and it was flanked by two Tudor buildings with glassed-in bay windows on the first floor that had settled into odd angles over the centuries. The upper floors were whitewashed and contrasted brightly with the black timbers criss-crossing the face. The other buildings were a mishmash of the intervening times but housed the expected combination of a Boots, cell phone carriers, a W.H. Smith, and a Tesco.

John chuckled when Sherlock ordered a wrap. Sherlock gave him a raised eyebrow. At least he was eating. John was going to have a shepherd's pie, thought of his soft midsection, was going to change his mind, then ordered it anyway. Sherlock liked him the way he was. If he was going to diet, it would be for himself and not because he was thinking about how he would look to Sherlock unclothed. God. He was turning into a teenager all over again.

Ichabod and Greg offered some local history, including ghost stories. Andy seemed quite entertained by those. John might have thrown in an occasional comment, but he wasn't really processing. He was just watching Sherlock eat, bite after bite of the wrap disappearing between those red lips. It was ridiculous. And Sherlock clearly knew what John was going through because he would occasionally lick his lips, leaving them bright and wet, and John could only hope his erection would subside before they got up from table.

Food consumed, they returned to the hotel. The rooms were ready.

"The house is just a quarter mile from here, down one of the side streets, which turns into a lane about halfway there," said Greg. "Meet here in the lobby, say in thirty minutes?"

They agreed and went to their respective rooms. When John opened the door to his and Sherlock's, he couldn't help the brush of disappointment upon noting the two narrow single beds.

Before he could think further, Sherlock pulled him into a hard kiss, with mashing of noses, tongues forcing deep, and lips against teeth. John could hardly breathe, and he didn't care.

"I find," said Sherlock, a bit breathless himself, "that I may have taken the wrong course of action last night."

"In what way?" asked John before pulling Sherlock's mouth to his again.

"I realize that life is always uncertain. We do not know what will happen today, and should something happen to either of us, I will have squandered our only chance at having sex."

"Then there's only one choice," hummed John.

Sherlock's face lit up. "A lot can be accomplished in fifteen minutes."

"No, you wanker," smiled John indulgently. "The choice is nothing can happen to us. Now let me get my gun."


	15. Ichabod

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely a warning for explicit sexual behavior and violence. But all in furtherance of the story.

They met in the hotel lobby, and Ichabod couldn't help noticing how thoroughly snogged John looked when he and Sherlock came down. Sherlock looked totally collected, but there was an unmistakable sense of proprietorship about how Sherlock hovered over John. Sherlock and John hadn't said anything to Greg about their change in status yet, but Greg had to notice. Ichabod would ask Greg later.

It was hard to believe they were off to confront a murderer. The Kent summer afternoon was so achingly lovely. There was a golden shimmer over everything, and Ichabod had to confess that he missed this in San Francisco. They walked down the high street, and Greg paired off with John, while Ichabod walked with Andy. Sherlock was far in the lead. Andy commented on the Tudor architecture and how quintessentially English everything was. Ichabod was pleased that Andy found so much to love about England. Even though Ichabod had established himself in America, a part of him was forever English.

They turned off the high street and down a side street of modest two-story homes done in a range of pastel colors and standing neatly side by side. They had two windows to one side of the front door and a symmetrical row of three windows on the upper floor. Most of the lower windows had a window basket, and most of these were filled with a cascading geranium with brilliantly red flowers.

A block later and the houses were now detached, with gardens around them behind white picket fencing. The gardens were a credit to their tenders, with wild profusions of lavender, primrose, and columbine. Behind the houses he also saw trellises of runner beans, vines of courgettes, and the distinctive stalks of onions and garlic.

It was an idyllic stroll, his beloved at his side oohing and aahing, and Ichabod could only agree. It was all beautiful.

The macadam ended and became a gravel roadway lined mostly by poplars and lindens, with an occasional home tucked in their midst. The height of the trees cast most of the road in a dappled shade.

"If I'm not mistaken," said Sherlock, who had been waiting for them to catch up, "Moriarty's house is the next one to the left. Greg and I should go first. Andy and Ichabod should follow, and John should bring up the rear. Keep a minimum of five feet apart in case of spells."

Suddenly, it dawned on Ichabod that this was not a pleasant afternoon's stroll. He felt Andy take his hand and offer a reassuring squeeze.

They followed Sherlock and Greg through a metal garden gate. Ichabod felt nothing. John was calm but looking everywhere. The gate gave on to a well-tended lawn bordered by peonies, verbena, and chrysanthemums, with a paved path to the front door of the gabled and timbered house. The lower floor was in brick with mullioned bay windows flanking the front door. It was a substantial house, probably at least four bedrooms on the upper story and perhaps an additional room or maybe two tucked behind the gables.

"Do we just go up and knock?" whispered Andy.

Ichabod shrugged his ignorance of protocol in such a situation.

Sherlock and Greg were at the front door, and Sherlock held up a hand to keep them back. Sherlock rang the bell, which Ichabod could hear in the stillness surrounding them, but no one came to the door.

"Could he be out doing stuff for the celebration?" asked Andy, moving towards the others.

"That seems unlikely," responded Ichabod, moving with him.

John suddenly cried out, but before Ichabod could respond, there was a hint of citrus in the air and then things went black.

.....

When Ichabod came to, he found himself divested of his clothing and chained to a rock wall. There were lengths of chain that fastened to a collar around his neck and to cuffs around his wrists and ankles, and it was clear the restraints were spelled. He was able to move, but only in a very proscribed fashion. To his right was an equally disrobed and restrained Sherlock, still unconscious and mostly slumped to the floor. To Ichabod's left was John, and beyond him, Andy. John was awake, but Andy appeared to still be out. Ichabod's head throbbed.

Ichabod looked around the room where they were imprisoned. There were no windows, and the rock wall suggested a basement room. The four of them were brightly lit by spot lights that hung in a row the length of the room and in front of them. In fact, the heat from the lights had raised a sheen of perspiration over the front of his body. The stone wall behind them was cast mostly in shadow. On the other side of the room was a table on which Ichabod could see syringes, vials, and what looked like the wooden stirrers available at coffee shops. At the end of the row of lights to the left was a door, and in the far corner, to the left of the door, was a pile of clothing, probably theirs. To Sherlock's right there was nothing, just a plaster wall.

"How long have you been awake?" Ichabod asked John.

"Just woke up. My head feels like shite."

"I don't see Greg," Ichabod said in realization.

"That can't be good."

There was a moan to Ichabod's right.

"Sherlock," he cried out.

"I can hear you perfectly well, Ichabod. It's a very small and enclosed space." Sherlock's chains rattled as he leaned forward to see the length of the room. "Hello, John."

"Hello, Sherlock. I guess there wasn't a spell."

Sherlock shook his head and immediately groaned. "Just simple knock out gas, I'm afraid. Although these chains have a spell of some type on them. Where is Greg?"

"We haven't seen him," confirmed Ichabod.

There was another moan from the other end of the room followed by a few softly spoken expletives.

"Glad to have you back with us, Andy," said Ichabod.

"What happened to our fucking clothes?" exclaimed Andy in reply.

"No idea," answered John. "Kind of suggestive, isn't it?"

"Maybe he just wanted to make sure we weren't hiding weapons," said Andy.

"You mean like Dr. Watson's gun?"

Ichabod snapped his attention to the unfamiliar high tenor voice. They hadn't noticed the man enter the room, but it was clear who it was given the resemblance to the yearbook photos. Decidedly older, but still recognizable.

"Jim Moriarty," hissed Sherlock.

Moriarty let out a high-pitched laugh that was unnaturally shrill. "I'm so pleased you know my name, Sherlock Holmes. I certainly know yours." Moriarty walked past Ichabod to approach Sherlock. He was dressed in a fitted suit, and walked with a definite grace. It was almost as if he glided up to Sherlock. He gave Sherlock a very suggestive appraisal, licking his lips as his eyes raked down Sherlock's body.

"If you touch him," shouted John, audibly straining against his chains, "I will kill you."

Moriarty turned to look at John. "Ooo. So forceful. Your own little soldier, Sherlock." He turned his attention back to Sherlock. "Well, you inspired me to get my own."

At that, a young man with dusky blond hair and a blank mien entered, pushing ahead of him a very still and manacled Greg Lestrade by his shoulder and pointing a gun in the center of Greg's back.

"Ah, the lovely Seb. While I don't think even I could miss at that range, know that Seb also served in Afghanistan, so he could easily take out Inspector Lestrade as well as one of you without missing a beat." At this, Moriarty turned to face the four of them. "I am so sorry to put the dear inspector yet once again in the role of damsel in distress - yes, I think those were the words you used - but there may be parts of what I need you to do where you might be disinclined to be cooperative. Know that the inspector's life depends on your cooperation."

Moriarty then turned with a flourish and walked in front of John. He gave John an appraising look and then directed his next remarks to Sherlock. "I really don't see what the attraction is. A nearly middle-aged white man with a paunch. He may be a good shot, but take a look at Seb. You can get looks and good marksmanship in a single package. Believe me."

Ichabod could sense the tension in Sherlock, but Sherlock did not make a sound.

When Ichabod looked back over, Moriarty was now in front of Andy. "Now this, on the other hand, I can appreciate." Ichabod trembled as he watched Moriarty's eyes travel up and down the length of Andy's body. "Maybe later," Moriarty laughed and turned away.

Moriarty returned to stand in front of Sherlock. "I have my little friend here." Moriarty slid a thin slip of metal from his breast pocket. It was pointed at one end, and Ichabod recognized it for the dagger it was. "If you step out of line Sherlock, it will find its way into either your dear Dr. Watson or," and now he turned to face Ichabod, "your friend's little Chinese dumpling. You would hate to be the cause of the death of Ichabod's lovely boyfriend, now wouldn't you?"

Moriarty looked at Sherlock and smiled. "Time to begin. No death, I promise you, but maybe just a teensy weensy bit of pain.

"Sherlock, you get to lead off. I will release your collar and cuffs, and your job is to extract tears from the four of you. And I'm sorry, but I'm all out of onions. And remember, if you step out of line, three of your four colleagues will be dead before you can take another."

Sherlock nodded, and Ichabod watched as Moriarty touched the cuffs and collar, and the locks disengaged.

Moriarty handed Sherlock an eyedropper and a vial. "Who shall be first?"

Sherlock hesitated, and before Ichabod knew what was happening, Moriarty whipped three open handed blows to both sides of Ichabod's face. The attack was so sudden that it took a second for the fierce burn to register, but when it did, Ichabod could feel his body's autonomic response to the pain in the moisture in his eyes.

"Really, Sherlock. Must I do your work for you?" Moriarty looked at John next. "And goodness me. I forgot to remove my rings first. That might leave a mark. Should I continue?"

Sherlock moved towards John, but Moriarty stopped him with a finger to his chest. "First things first. Collect those tears."

Sherlock dutifully used the eyedropper to collect Ichabod's tears, and the cool touch of the glass to the corners of his eyes was strange. Sherlock's face was devoid of expression, so Ichabod knew how angry Sherlock was. When he tried to give Sherlock a reassuring smile, he felt the burn of the open gashes on his face and ended up grimacing.

Sherlock moved in front of John, and Moriarty was almost dancing in enthusiasm.

"I'm sorry John," Ichabod could see Sherlock mouth. John nodded. Suddenly John shouted in pain, and it was clear that Sherlock had pinched a very sensitive nerve.

"Shit," cried John, shaking his head and blinking furiously. Sherlock stoically collected John's tears and added them to the bottle.

Ichabod had to close his eyes when Sherlock approached Andy. He heard Andy mutter something about giving them a good show, and then Andy gave out a yelp, followed by rapid breathing.

Ichabod counted to ten before opening his eyes, and by then Sherlock was collecting his own tears. Sherlock must have managed to pinch his own nerve.

"Well done," clapped Moriarty, taking the vial and dropper from Sherlock. He capped the vial and put it on the table and picked up another vial and a long and thin piece of metal with a small indent on one end like a spoon. "Sherlock. If you would be so kind as to reattach your collar and cuff?"

There were audible clicks as the metal restraints were refastened. Moriarty smiled. "So cooperative. Lovely, just lovely." Moriarty walked to Andy and handed him the vial and spoon. "There's nothing quite as sexy as a sweaty naked man, don't you think? No pain, little dumpling. Just collect a little sweat from each of you."

Ichabod was sure something would happen, but Andy went up to John and proceeded to collect sweat from behind his ear. "It's like a bad episode of Dark Shadows, isn't it?" he said to John.

"Worse," replied John.

Andy walked up to Ichabod and ran the metal spoon up the central hollow of his chest. It felt like a caress, and Ichabod wasn't surprised to hear Andy murmur, "I love you."

"My, he's a chatty one, isn't he Ichabod," sneered Moriarty. "I bet he's amazingly vocal in bed." Ichabod fought to keep down his blush, but he knew he had failed when Moriarty gave him a look and broke out in a shrill peal of laughter. "Oh, I can't wait to hear him when you collect the final essences."

Andy collected Sherlock's sample from the hollow of his neck and said nothing. Finally, he collected a sample from the side of his own face, adding the drops to the vial. He handed the vial to Moriarty and went back to his place and snapped the restraints back on.

"The Asian races really are such quick studies, aren't they?" exclaimed Moriarty to no one in particular.

"And now, I need a doctor's touch." Moriarty held up a disposable needle screwed into a plastic sleeve and a vacuum tube. Ichabod recognized the modern accoutrements of drawing blood. Moriarty went over and released John. "Dr. Watson, if you please."

As John wrapped a rubber tourniquet around his own arm, he said, "At least you're being sanitary about this."

"But of course." Moriarty took a seat on the single chair. "You are so competent, Dr. Watson. That is quite a sexy quality. Perhaps there is something to Sherlock's choosing you after all."

Ichabod watched, somewhat fascinated, as John stuck the needle into the crook of his arm and vividly red blood coursed into the glass vial. When the vial was full, John snapped the tourniquet loose, picked up a cotton pad, pulled the vacuum tube free, and then pressed the pad over the insertion point as he pulled the needle free.

"That was poetry in motion Dr. Watson," exclaimed Moriarty. "Did you see that, Seb? Alas, medicine is not one of your skills."

Ichabod watched as John very competently drew a vial of blood from Andy and then himself. If it weren't for the snap of the tourniquet, Ichabod would have hardly felt a thing.

It was somewhat eerie to see the intensity on Moriarty's face as John prepped Sherlock's arm.

"So what are you going to do with all of this," asked John, snapping the tourniquet in place. He flicked the vein at the crook of Sherlock's arm and then swabbed it with an alcohol wipe. "It's a spell isn't it?"

John inserted the needle into Sherlock's vein, and once again, blood rushed out as if fleeing Sherlock's body.

"Of course it's a spell, Dr. Watson," hummed Moriarty. "But for what do you think?"

Sherlock spoke as John was removing the needle and unfastening the tourniquet. "Longevity."

Moriarty let out a gleeful laugh. "You are brilliant, Sherlock. I was right to focus on you and your friends for the four essences I needed."

"Longevity? I don't understand," said John, looking at Sherlock blankly.

"It's quite simple, John. Jim Moriarty, unlike most Lambertonians, is not gifted with longevity. He is trying to gain it."

John handed the final vial to Moriarty, who took it without taking his eyes off Sherlock. John returned to his place under Seb's watchful eye and snapped his restraints into place.

"Do continue, Sherlock," said Moriarty. "Explain all." He rubbed his hands together and stared intently at Sherlock.

"A spell attributed to the Four who Speak as One, a revered group of four mystic sisters who lived in the early 1800s. The spell uses the combined essences of tears, sweat, blood, and semen."

"But not just any essences," insisted Moriarty. "My witch said it had to be the essences of THE FOUR. Not just any four, but the four associated with the cards she laid out."

"Justice," Sherlock recited. "The empress. The king of cups. The hanged man."

"Yes," agreed Moriarty eagerly. "I had a false start..."

"The two victims from last summer."

"A mistake, I agree. But then you appeared and nearly caught me. I could see how special you were, Sherlock, and when I looked you up in the year books, there you were. Justice personified."

Ichabod could see the intelligence amidst the madness in Moriarty's eyes. It was chilling.

"But I needed four, not just one," Moriarty continued. He turned to Ichabod. "And lo and behold, the hedonist of Sherlock's class. A fitting empress, although not the gender I had expected. As you have probably surmised, I have planned for you to use your prodigious talents to extract the final essence."

Ichabod realized with a shock that Moriarty was expecting him to make the others ejaculate, not to mention himself. While they were chained, and while Moriarty and Seb and Greg looked on.

"It all fell into place. Your lovely Dr. Watson was the wounded warrior, the king of cups. I still don't see how little dumpling is the hanged man, but you two obviously come in pairs, so I'm willing to go on faith for that one. Yet, we were oceans apart, as The Carpenters used to sing." Moriarty put on a moue of mock sadness. "And then," he continued, his face brightening, "the anniversary came along. The perfect way to get people together from across the sea. And it was simple to insinuate myself into the planning committee. People are always so grateful for competent help."

"But you needed to get my attention," said Sherlock.

"Yes," agreed Moriarty, "but it was also a test. To see if you really were a worthy donor."

Sherlock said nothing to that.

"Well," said Moriarty, showing a bit of pique at Sherlock's silence, "before we have the empress perform her royal duties, tell me why I killed Theodore Wandsman."

"Because you disdained him," said Sherlock. "He was in your class and also lacked longevity, and you hated that he used that commonality to try to get close to you. He was not worthy of your association."

Moriarty nodded. "He was pathetic. Not worth the air he breathed. And how did I choose my first two victims?"

"Lambertonians who graduated the year you were born," said Sherlock simply.

Moriarty nodded with awe on his face. "Very worthy indeed. I can see you understand my frustration - that the universe would see fit to bestow on idiots the gift of longevity while denying it to a genius like myself." He reached over and touched Ichabod's collar and cuffs, and they released. "Now, Ichabod, show us the technique that earned you your sobriquet."

Sherlock was looking at him. "I need to be first."

"Indeed," cried Moriarty joyfully. "You are the first among equals, and you shall be first to surrender the fourth essence."

Ichabod felt ridiculously exposed, but Sherlock's confident look gave him confidence. "I want your mouth on me, Ichabod," said Sherlock darkly.

Ichabod was shocked, but Moriarty was moaning and laughing, clearly delighted by the prospect of such a show. Ichabod dropped to his knees. Sherlock must have a plan, and it wasn't as if Ichabod had never done this before.

Ichabod took Sherlock's still flaccid cock in his hand. He held it gently, the way he knew Sherlock liked it, moving his hand around his cock with feather like touches. Ichabod was shocked when Sherlock began to moan. Sherlock was not a vocal sex partner, unlike Andy. Ichabod leaned forward and began to flick his tongue against Sherlock's balls. This elicited further moans, and Sherlock in fact began to lengthen.

Ichabod tightened his grip a little to provide more friction, and Sherlock started to buck into his hand. This was not like Sherlock either, who usually held himself in tense stillness until he came. Nothing so far felt like what he remembered of sex with Sherlock. And then it came to Ichabod. This was all for show.

Time to get with the program. He took Sherlock into his mouth, and Moriarty and Sherlock moaned in unison. Sherlock began to speak under his breath, soft cries to take him in deeper, suck him harder, suck him faster. Sherlock began to breathe faster and his abdomen tensed in and out. Outwardly, it must have looked like Sherlock was approaching orgasm, but Ichabod could feel the proof to the contrary in his mouth. He knew what Sherlock felt like when he was ready to come. This was not even close.

Sherlock started to give off hitched exhales of breath, punctuated by cries. He increased the tempo of his thrusts into Ichabod's mouth, and Ichabod played along, running his hands up and down Sherlock's body and moaning himself. Sherlock began keening, and then he cried out, "I'm going to come!"

And suddenly Ichabod was deafened by the frighteningly loud report of a gun simultaneous to a faint muffled cry, and he let go of Sherlock's cock and turned his head expecting the point of a dagger or another bullet only to see Moriarty struggling in the restraining arms of Andy's shadow, the dagger uselessly held in the fingers crushed to his side.

Ichabod rose and looked over to Andy and John, both of whom were safe and looking towards Greg and his captor. Ichabod turned in that direction and there was Greg, whole and unharmed, and Seb lying prone on the ground. He walked over to Greg, who gave Ichabod a look that conveyed that he was fine, and when Ichabod looked down at Seb, he could see the neat blackened hole through the center of his forehead. Ichabod looked at Greg, and Greg simply pointed behind Ichabod. Ichabod turned, and that's when he saw the gun in John's hands. The gun John had brought with him.

Only gradually did Ichabod realize that he had been largely deafened by the firing of John's gun in the contained space. As his hearing returned, he could hear Moriarty's angry shouts.

"Come on Andy," Ichabod heard Sherlock cry. "Let us get that idiot over here to unlock these stupid chains. I can't stand to hear his blather one second longer than I have to."


	16. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely explicit. But the sex is for a good cause.

Moriarty was safely in custody, and the body of Seb (Sebastian Moran) was in the morgue at Tunbridge Wells.

The fivesome were knackered but too hepped up to go to sleep just yet, and there was still time before patricians began last calls, so they ended up around a table at the Hares and Braces with drinks before them.

"You were conspicuously silent throughout this whole ordeal," commented John. Sherlock could see how tired he was by the way he sagged on his elbows, his hands almost falling asleep around his pint.

"Seb threatened to shoot one of you, nowhere fatal mind you, each time I made a noise. He was bloody scary, so I just held my tongue." Greg shook his head and took a deep draught of his own pint. "I should get a medal for keeping silent, especially when you two started with the sex show." This he directed at Ichabod and Sherlock. "I need to scrub my eyeballs after that."

"It was only a diversion," said Sherlock. "It wasn't real sex."

"Your dick was in Cabo's mouth," countered Greg. "That counts as sex in my book."

"In any case, it worked," said John. "Moriarty was so obsessed with you two that he didn't notice anything until it was too late. Seb was also nicely distracted."

"How did you get your gun?" asked Greg.

John pointed his head towards Andy, who was essentially asleep against Ichabod's shoulder.

Not bothering to open his eyes, Andy mumbled, "John and Sherlock distracted them both with all the talking. My shadow was able to get John's gun, which was conveniently on top of our clothes in the corner. When the sex show started, the shadow passed the gun to John and then slipped around to get behind Moriarty."

"Andy had alerted me about what he planned to do with his TV show reference," said John.

"He told me to put on a show," said Sherlock. "I took it as a matter of faith and did my best."

"A very good show" agreed Ichabod.

"And you acquired this shadow how?" asked Greg.

"Long story," mumbled Andy. "Later."

Greg nodded.

Something had been bothering Sherlock all evening. "Who are The Carpenters?"

John laughed, and Sherlock gladly endured the mockery since that laugh was still his to hear. "They're that brother sister duo from the 70s. They were the ones responsible for that song at Greg's wedding that you despised so much."

"We've Only Just Begun," Sherlock nodded in memory. "Total drivel. Rainy Days and Mondays wasn't too bad, however."

"Suits your usually dour mood," smiled John.

"I don't remember that from your wedding," said Ichabod.

"It wasn't," grumbled Greg. "Although it would have been more appropriate."

.....

Sherlock and John did not have sex the next day. Not that they didn't spend a very pleasant hour snogging and cuddling in bed. But Sherlock had other plans, and he told John he wanted their first time to be special and in their flat, in their home together.

John, the sentimental but lovable fool, ate it up, and Sherlock handily forestalled sex until they were back in London.

It was clear that Ichabod and Andy had not exercised such restraint, and Ichabod was energized and in excellent spirits, as he always was after a good shag.

They joined the throngs to wander around the school. Greg said there would be about four hundred in attendance for the celebration. They greeted old acquaintances and endured Andy and John's laughter over their having been members of the Up and Comers society, an honor society in fact, but a title which Andy suggested could be used for their new sideline in pornography or phone sex.

"Everyone looks so ordinary," commented Andy.

"Sherlock would say boring," interjected Ichabod.

"Most people are," agreed Sherlock. "Just because one can sense spells and have longevity doesn't mean one will be extraordinary. There will be bankers and teachers and used car salesmen, just as with any population."

"Not to mention psychotic murderers," added John helpfully.

"Indeed," said Sherlock.

"None of them know what happened, do they?" said Andy, looking around at the throng of visitors.

"They don't need to," said Sherlock. "And in the larger context, Moriarty's megalomania is just a blip, and now it is fortunately gone."

Andy nodded. "Okay. Now let's see your dorm room. We need some inspiration for our set design if we're going to make this sex thing work."

.....

The evening's festivities were typically tedious. There were speeches, food, a moment of silence to remember departed Lambertonians (including the recent murder victims but not Moran, who had not been a Lambertonian), the unfortunate Tarot decorations, and then an embarrassing collective rendition of the academy song, "O Lamberton, Thou Senses Fair."

There was also dancing, which Andy and John took to like maniacs. They shook their various body parts (which was not without its appeal), raised their hands in the air, shouted and clapped, and generally looked like mindless, crazed, happy to be alive, admittedly adorable fools. Greg was occasionally seen on the dance floor, each time with a different female partner. Ichabod even joined in at various points, all angles and limbs but clearly besotted by Andy and willing to do anything he wanted.

Which was, Sherlock admitted, how he felt about John. So while he steadfastly refused to join them in their bacchanal, when John asked him to join him for a slow dance, he did not refuse. And it was sweet indeed.

.....

On the return train journey, Andy relayed the history of how he had come to have a shadow, which Sherlock only half listened to, having gleaned the essentials from John previously.

"Quite handy, that," commented Greg. "Takes quite a bit of doing, I gather."

"From what our witch friends have told us," Andy replied.

"One thing I didn't know before," said John.

"What's that?" asked Andy.

"Your shadow is, in fact, anatomically correct."

Andy laughed and explained that was one of the earlier experiments Ichabod and Andy had tried. How puerile, thought Sherlock.

Soon enough, they were back in London, and after arranging for dinner with Greg before Andy and Ichabod flew back to America, Greg took a separate cab back to his place, and Sherlock and the others went in another.

"I'm sure you'd like to rest up a bit," said Sherlock, "but perhaps you'd like to come by Baker Street later on?"

"But I thought," John began, but Sherlock touched his forearm, and John fell silent.

"Sure," said Andy enthusiastically. "Okay with you, Ichabod?"

"Of course," Ichabod agreed.

They dropped Andy and Ichabod at the hotel, and John was silent for the short ride to Baker Street.

They had just closed the street door, when John said, "I thought you'd want the evening to be just the two of us. You know. Our home. Our bed?"

"What do you think of a foursome with Ichabod and Andy?"

"Wait," said John, turning from the door to their flat. "Are you starting that whole thing again?"

"What thing?" asked Sherlock in his most innocent voice.

"Oh God," cried John. "What are you up to? I want to make love to you, Sherlock Holmes, and just you. Andy and Ichabod are lovely guys, but they aren't the ones I'm in love with." John stood there and just stared at Sherlock, his hands braced on his thighs, an impenetrable barrier to their flat. Sherlock flinched.

"Tell me what is going on in that bloody unfathomable mind of yours, or so help me God..."

"I love you, John."

"I know that," cried John in exasperation. "What does that have to do with..."

"And I want to have you in my life for as long as possible."

"I'm yours, Sherlock," John insisted. "Until death do us part."

"Which, while always unpredictable, I would like to try and forestall for as long as possible."

"I don't..."

Sherlock could tell the moment John figured it out. "Oh my God, Sherlock. You want to finish Moriarty's spell."

"The spell of the Four who Speak as One," corrected Sherlock.

"Whatever," said John. John looked at him, but the frustration and annoyance of seconds before faded away to be replaced by a look of such tenderness and caring that Sherlock had to lean forward and kiss him.

John's lips were warm and tender, and Sherlock caressed them with his own. He swiped across them with his tongue and pulled John's lower lip between his teeth. John's moans were the real thing, and Sherlock was instantly hard against him.

John pulled away from the kiss, but he kept his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, leaning his head against Sherlock's chest as he caught his breath.

"You love me that much?" John whispered.

"I cannot bear the thought of you leaving my side, and if there is anything I can do, preposterous as it might be, that might postpone that day, then I will do it." Sherlock kissed the top of John's head, and John placed a kiss over Sherlock's heart.

"I could ask them to masturbate in the kitchen while you and I take care of each other in the bedroom...," Sherlock murmured.

"That's ridiculous, you mad wanker," said John. "Okay. We'll have our foursome."

"I will make you very happy," Sherlock said, pulling John close.

"God help me," John said, "you already do."

.....

John was ready to have sex the moment they entered the flat, but Sherlock insisted he wait in order to preserve the potency.

"And after we contribute our come to the cause, are you going to bleed us and make us cry?" John asked, taking his kit bag out of his suitcase to return the contents to the bathroom.

Sherlock froze, his hands around the package he was just about to hide behind the tray of ears in the refrigerator.

"You didn't," said John.

Sherlock looked at John and began to explain. "Three of the essences were already collected. It seemed foolish to waste them." He held up the six vials.

"You've been planning this ever since!" accused John.

"While giving a psychopath like Moriarty longevity would not be a logical decision," said Sherlock, "granting it to you would do only good. Not just for you or me, but for all the people you help and care for."

John slumped his shoulders in a resignation. "I give up. You are just too good with words. Put the damn things in the refrigerator. I know that's what you were planning."

"How would you guess that?" asked Sherlock as he did indeed put the vials into cold storage.

"You know I hate looking too closely at your refrigerated experiments." John went to the bathroom.

Sherlock carried his suitcase into his room and put the case on the bed to unpack. He had just opened the case when John appeared on the threshold.

"What does Delia Smith say about tidying up before an orgy?"

.....

Again, John marveled at how un-awkward it all was. He was sure there was no polite or easy way to ask friends to join you for a round of sex in order to collect their sperm so that you could use it for a longevity spell. But that's what Sherlock essentially did not one minute after they walked through the door.

Andy let out a loud laugh, and when he had quieted down, had a hard time getting out his words around further laughter. "I was actually wondering if our sex life was too vanilla."

Ichabod assumed a stoic look and said solemnly, "All in a good cause."

"For God and country," John couldn't help adding.

The three of them fell into hysterical laughter, and Sherlock just shook his head. Perhaps this was not fully thought out. 

"Oh stop looking so condescending," said John, reaching for him and pulling him close. "This is your idea, and you're going to enjoy it." With that, John pulled him in to a wet kiss with lots of friction and tongue. Sherlock heard Andy and Ichabod chuckle and then grew silent, obviously following their lead.

Sherlock allowed himself to drown in the sensation of John's mouth. He felt John's tongue push insistently into his own, and then it was tongue against tongue. He licked John's lips and then nipped the lower one, and John shivered very satisfactorily in response. Sherlock thought of John's mouth, how he smiled, how he frowned, how he used that mouth to yell at Sherlock when he used John's toothbrush to clean a piece of bone, how he called him a mad wanker, how he told him that he loved him.

When John pulled away, Sherlock knew he let out a cry of regret, but this was immediately replaced by a cry of surprise when John lowered himself to his knees while dragging his fingers down the front of Sherlock's erection.

"But...," Sherlock began, only to be cut short by John pulling down his zipper.

"I've wanted to do this since your little show in Moriarty's dungeon. You said you want to make me happy, right?"

Sherlock could only nod as John pulled his hard length through his flies.

John looked up at him, smiled, and then took the tip of Sherlock's cock into his mouth.

Sherlock blanked for a second, but soon was cataloging yet another reason to dwell on the miracle of John Watson's mouth.

John did not technically give Sherlock the best fellatio that he had ever received, but Sherlock felt it the most because it meant the most. John held Sherlock's cock at the base with one hand, pointing it forward to allow John the most access. John hummed as his mouth worked over Sherlock's cock, slicking it with saliva that allowed John's lips to glide over his frenulum, sending jolts of pleasure with each stroke up and down. Sherlock held himself still, his whole mind focused on the one part of his body that was in John's mouth. It was hot and wet and sparking as if with electricity. It was courage and risk and a churning in his balls. It was acceptance and love and completion. Sherlock came without a sound, but his hands tightened on John's shoulders, and he allowed himself a small jerk with each tumultuous spasm of his orgasm. John pulled off after the first jet of come, undoubtedly surprised by the volume and the taste. The second jet hit his lips as he attempted to take Sherlock back into his mouth. By the third jet, John was once again firmly surrounding him and brushing his tongue over Sherlock's sensitive tip.

John pulled off again, using his tongue to clean Sherlock off. He was ready to lick the come off his face when Sherlock stopped him. Sherlock dipped his finger in the liquid on John's upper lip.

"You are totally quiet and totally tense," said John, standing up. "At first I wondered if I was doing it right, and then I could feel how you were tensing up, like a watch spring. And, well, I guess I did okay."

"More than okay," said Sherlock, kissing his nose. "I need to pause to take care of this sample."

At that moment, Ichabod cried out and gave out a series of gasps before quieting. Andy stood up and asked, "Biological sample, anyone?"

.....

They had moved to the bedroom, and John sat on the coverlet, leaning back against the headboard. Sherlock looked down at him, the golden glow under the paleness of his skin, the curls of dark blond hair across his chest, the firm thighs and arms, the gentle pillow of John's stomach, and the dusky rose of his erection. Sherlock climbed onto the bed and crawled up to John. When he was crouched over his legs, Sherlock gave John a smile. "I want you inside of me, John," he said. He could see John's pupils dilate at the thought, and Sherlock shuddered to know that John desired him so much. He lowered his head and licked at the tip of John's cock. Gradually, the licks traveled further up and down John's length, even touching on John's balls. The latter caused John to moan, and Sherlock filed that away for further exploration later.

Sherlock sensed movement onto the bed, and when he glanced up, he could see Andy's backside.

"Oh, yes," Andy cried out as John undoubtedly took his cock into his mouth. Andy continued to voice words of encouragement to John, bucking his hips, and causing the bed to shake.

Sherlock could feel that John had grown even harder, both under his ministrations as well as Andy's. Sherlock sucked John in and slowly swallowed him to the root.

"Oh God, Sherlock," John cried. "That feels amazing."

Sherlock felt great satisfaction and pulled completely off of John before slowly taking him all in again. Again, John moaned.

Sherlock felt two hands on his buttocks, and then a familiar tongue began to dance around his opening. Ichabod had always been quite skilled at lovemaking, and Sherlock could feel his muscles tense as Ichabod's darting touches became firmer and firmer.

Sherlock continued to fellate John, pulling off and dropping down, relishing the muscle that was John's cock and the involuntary spasms that his efforts produced.

Sherlock could feel Ichabod's tongue working more firmly into his anus. He was opening up. He felt hot and wet. Ichabod pulled away, and something cool dripped onto his opening. Then he felt Ichabod work a finger into him, sliding smoothly in and out, tingling his nerves.

Sherlock let go of John's cock in order to close his eyes and just feel. Ichabod now had two fingers in him, scissoring open and closed, stretching him deliciously, sending tremors up his back. He was almost ready.

"God, Sherlock," said John softly. "When you look like that..."

Andy had pulled away and was now lying next to John, kissing his nipple. Ichabod worked a third finger into Sherlock, and soon the three fingers were sliding in and out with exquisite friction.

"I want you, John," said Sherlock, looking up and opening his eyes. John's eyes met his, and John nodded.

A little like a synchronized dance, John and Andy rolled off opposite sides of the bed. Sherlock crawled the rest of the way up and stayed on all fours. Ichabod lay down next to him, pulling his thighs up and apart.

Andy moved over Ichabod first, and when Ichabod let out a great exhalation, Sherlock knew that Andy had entered him. Gradually Andy developed a thrusting rhythm, and the bed shook steadily.

Then Sherlock felt John's hand on his lower back. Sherlock looked back and his eyes met John's. John smiled. John moved forward, and Sherlock felt the blunt tip of John's cock pressed against his anus. It was just a moment, and then Sherlock's anus opened and allowed John's hard length to enter him.

John was tentative at first, slowly sliding in and then holding still once he had entered Sherlock fully. Sherlock tensed his muscles around John's cock, and John gave a short cry. Sherlock tensed again, and John responded by slowly pulling out. Gradually, John built up a faster rhythm, pushing in and then pulling out, and with each stroke, Sherlock could feel the tension in his body building again.

Suddenly, Sherlock was aware that John and Andy had synchronized their rhythms, and Ichabod's gasps echoed the ones that were only in Sherlock's head. Andy muttered curses and endearments with each thrust, and John grunted and gasped in equal measure. Sherlock's world narrowed to this small room, this one bed, these four people. His first love, Ichabod Crane, whose body and mind he knew almost as well as his own. Whose increasingly inchoate sounds were a clear sign to Sherlock that Ichabod was on the brink of orgasm. Andy Brooks, who showed Sherlock yet again that sometimes behind the most ordinary exterior lay a most extraordinary life, who loved Ichabod as Sherlock could not, who was shouting Ichabod's name as he thrust into him. John Watson, who was the most extraordinary of all because for whatever reason, he loved Sherlock, faults and all. And at this moment, John Watson was filling him with need and want and desire. Sherlock could feel the tensing in John's thighs, the stuttering in John's movements, the slight increase in hardening in John's cock; so now Sherlock could reach between his legs and touch his own trembling erection. He had been on the edge for a while now, the friction of John's thrusts against his prostate. Now, he just had to wrap his hand around his cock and pump once, twice, three times. That was all it took, and Sherlock's whole body shook as his second orgasm of the afternoon broke through him, running waves of pleasure up through his core. And that was all it took, that frisson, to send John over the edge with a shout. John thrust into Sherlock and just held there, locked to him, as his body trembled with his orgasm. Locked to him. Never to leave.


	17. Andy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This last chapter is more or less a coda, so I'm posting it along with Chapter 16. Thanks to everyone who has read to the end.

Andy was seated on his usual stool behind the counter of Crane's Antiques, Curiosities, and Revelations, and he didn't even realize he was lost in thought until Ichabod startled him with a hug and a kiss.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Ichabod, wrapping his arms around him and resting his head on Andy's shoulder.

"Just life," said Andy.

"Anything in particular?" asked Ichabod.

"The future, I guess. And how much of it there might be, now."

Ichabod gave him another kiss behind his right ear. "Does the idea of longevity scare you?"

"No," said Andy, shaking his head. "It's just wrapping my head around the idea that I might be living long enough to see the turn of the 22nd century. It's kind of overwhelming."

Ichabod hummed contentedly at Andy's back. "I probably won't make it that far, you know. Even people with longevity usually only live to around 150 years, maximum. But for what it's worth, I'm very happy that you'll be here with me for a good long while."

They were back in San Francisco a few days now, but Andy still thought about the evening after the afternoon of essence production with Sherlock and John. They had ventured to a different restaurant than Angelo's, opting for Indian food at the Bengal Palace, and Irene Adler had been invited, to Andy's surprise.

They were seated and looking over the menu when Sherlock explained her presence.

"I have prepared the essences according to the spell," said Sherlock, holding up a small glass vial containing probably less than a teaspoon of a murky brownish liquid. "Irene is here to verify that the spell has worked."

"Do we have to do this here?" hissed John, pushing Sherlock's hand holding the vial down where it wasn't so visible.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If anyone asks, John, just tell them it's a medication you have to take." 

"But it's got, you know, mixed into it," insisted John.

Andy was amused at John's discomfiture, but there was a question that had been bothering him since Sherlock had asked them to help with the spell. Again, he didn't know how to broach the question. It seemed so self-centered, but it also bothered him that it hadn't come up.

"Less than a drop from each of us. Are you ready?" Sherlock asked John. 

"Wait a minute. Isn't Andy going to do this, too?" John asked. "I mean, Ichabod wants Andy around for a long time, too, doesn't he?"

Andy turned to look at Ichabod, grateful that John had asked the question for him. It's not that Andy wanted longevity exactly, but he didn't NOT want it either. And more importantly, didn't Ichabod want it for him?

The look Ichabod gave Andy was one of embarrassment. "Shit," said Ichabod. "I didn't get a chance to say anything to Andy yet."

"Say what to me?" asked Andy anxiously.

"That you don't need the spell," said Irene. "You already have longevity."

"What?" said John. 

"I sensed it when I met Andy," said Irene. "From what Sherlock was able to explain, it's probably due to the shadow or Katrina, but for whatever reason, Andy already has it."

Andy sat there, stunned into silence. He hadn't felt quite the same since he discovered he had a shadow, and now this.

"Wow," said John. "So I guess it's just me and the magic potion then." 

Sherlock unscrewed the lid to the vial and handed it to John. "Drink up, John." 

John took the vial and then a deep breath. "The things I do for you, Sherlock Holmes." And with that, he tossed back the contents of the vial, grimaced slightly, and swallowed. 

"See, John. That wasn't so hard now, was it?" said Sherlock, patting John gently on the shoulder. 

"Actually, I didn't even taste it," John admitted, but promptly took a swig of beer. "So how long will it take before Irene knows?"

"I already do," said Irene with a small smile.

"And," asked John, "are you going to tell me?"

"In fact," said Irene, "I am not."

"What? I don't get it," said John, confusion evident on his face.

"It's really quite simple," said Irene calmly. "This is a pretty simple spell to put together. If you four know that it works, how will you deal with the fact that you have the power to grant longevity to others? How will you decide who gets it and who doesn't? Once it gets beyond the four of you, what happens if even more people find out? The repercussions are enormous. When Sherlock and I talked, he agreed with me in the end, it was better for me to say nothing tonight. If the spell works, this will give you years to figure it out and work out what you'll do with the knowledge. If it doesn't, you still have lives to live."

That left the table quiet for some time, but eventually, they managed to put it behind them, and the dinner turned into another pleasant night with friends.

But Irene's observations stayed with Andy. Here he had been granted an amazing gift, and he wondered, if he was able to convey that gift to others, who he would pass the gift on to. Or more accurately, where he would stop. Abbie was the natural choice for a recipient, but if he gave the gift to Abbie, would he have to give the gift to Luke? If he gave the gift to Luke, how about Luke's siblings and his parents? Irene had done them a great favor, Andy decided. It really was better for now just not to know.

"It's different, I know," said Ichabod, snapping Andy yet once again out of his own thoughts, "but in many ways, it's not. We may have the chance to live longer than most people, but there is always the chance we'll die in an accident, by misadventure, through misfortune, or even because of disease. The fact is, it's not how long we have to live that's important."

Andy thought back yet again to their trip. He had had a quiet moment with Sherlock while they were strolling around Oxford on the day before they had flown home, and Sherlock had confessed to Andy that even though he had invited Irene in order to know whether the spell had worked, in the end, he was glad he didn't know.

"By not knowing," Sherlock had said, "I end up treating each day with John as a gift, something to cherish and value for what it is."

Andy had smiled at that. "John said something like that to me, too."

"As I constantly am reminded," smiled Sherlock in return, "John Watson is an amazing man."

"No," Andy said, returning to the present and responding to Ichabod's words. "It's not how long we live, is it? It's how we live it." He pulled Ichabod's arms more tightly around him, sharing this common view through the shop window of this corner of San Francisco and simply enjoyed this peaceful moment in their lives for what it was.


End file.
